Drabbles and Ficlets
by maripaz6
Summary: Short stories for the House Competition.
1. Moaning Myrtle

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Drabble

 **Prompt:** Thestrals [Creature]

 **Word Count (excluding A/N):** 691

 **Summary:** When she dies, Myrtle knows enough not to get on the horse's back, even if it does have wings.

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"I just remember seeing a pair of great big yellow eyes. My whole body sort of seized up and then I was floating away… and then I came back again. I was determined to haunt Olive Hornby, you see. Oh, she was sorry she'd ever laughed at my glasses."

-JK Rowling, The Chamber of Secrets

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Someone entered the bathroom, and Myrtle stifled a sob. No doubt it was Olive Hornby or one of her sidekicks here to torment her again.

But then a low, sibilant hiss echoed throughout the room.

Myrtle lifted her tear-streaked face, confusion in her grey eyes. Then the bathroom shook, as if the walls were shifting and sliding and rearranging themselves, and Myrtle let out a little cry of shock as she tumbled to the floor.

"Who— who's there?" she asked in a quavering voice.

A dark chuckle sounded. "Why don't you find out?"

"Are you a _boy_? Oh, you don't belong here." Her sorrow forgotten, Myrtle was now almost wriggling with glee. His voice was changing, so he was definitely older; if she was lucky, he was one of Olive's beaus. And _she_ got to boss him around. "Get out. This is _my_ bathroom."

"Aren't you Myrtle Warren, that little third year? Why don't you make me?"

Puffing out her chest in self-important indignation — for she wasn't a measly third year, but rather a grown-up fourth year — Myrtle stepped out of the stall, ready to give the boy a piece of her mind.

And gazed into two great big yellow eyes.

She was vaguely aware of her body crumpling to the floor like an unwieldy sack of potatoes, but only vaguely so, for her entire conscious was focused on those deep, dark, venomous yellow eyes looking into her, as if they could see into her soul. Finally, the boy hissed again and those hypnotising yellow eyes looked away.

Myrtle floated there, hardly aware of anything, oblivious to the boy and his monstrous snake leaving the room, barely even noticing Olive Hornby stepping into the bathroom minutes later and turning white as a sheet, as if she'd seen a ghost, and the ensuing hubbub of teachers and students and ghosts examining her own still cooling body. The crowd's movement pushed her into the U-bend, and even after they dispersed she remained there, shell-shocked.

It was only when a black, skeletal, winged horse landed before her that Myrtle remembered where she was and what she had seen.

Those entrancing yellow eyes.

The horse whinnied before her, and, driven by some indescribable compulsion, Myrtle almost mounted it. But something stopped her. She wanted revenge. Revenge on Olive Hornby. She'd be sorry for laughing at her glasses. "I'm sorry, Black Beauty," she murmured, running her fingers through its stringy mane. "But I can't go yet."

The stallion whinnied again, more indignantly this time, and bit her hand.

"What was that for?" Myrtle cried, inspecting her hand. She was dead, so no one should be able to hurt her, but somehow that old nag had managed to do so. A thick, silvery liquid that she could only assume was blood ran down her arm. "Go away!" she said petulantly, making shooing motions with her uninjured hand.

Whinnying even more urgently, the horse spread its bat-like wings and narrowed its white, glowing eyes. Myrtle lost herself in its gaze, feeling as if she were in a dream as she stumbled forward, but when her hand placed itself on the stallion's back and the horse nuzzled her blood-covered arm, she remembered herself. She couldn't leave, not yet.

"N-no!" she stammered, jerking away from the stallion. "I can't c-come with you..."

The horse bared its teeth at her, then snorted and turned away. With one powerful flap of its wings, it soared to the ceiling and, after wheeling around once, it darted out the door, leaving Myrtle alone in the empty bathroom.

She watched it go with an indescribable feeling in her chest. Somehow, she felt she'd done something that, one day, someday, she might regret. But for now, she was a ghost.

And Olive would be sorry.


	2. Riddle's Prison

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Theme [Escape]

 **Prompt:** Manslaughter [Action/Event]

 **Words:** 4550 (not counting A/N)

 **Summary:** Tom Riddle escapes death, but in doing so lands himself in a harsher prison.

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As the castle rumbled and rearranged itself for the Heir of Slytherin, Tom allowed himself one small, self-satisfied smirk. The purebloods would whisper among themselves, now that the basilisk roamed the castle again, and he'd make certain that they all knew it was he, the poor, muggle-raised half-blood, that had opened the Chamber of Secrets. They never should have dismissed him because of his muggle blood. He'd proven himself superior; he'd escaped his muggle heritage, and now he'd complete Salazar Slytherin's noble work: eradicating mudbloods.

 _Come_ , he hissed, and the poisonous-green snake obediently followed him, its tongue darting out to taste what was surely its first fresh air in centuries. He was watching its coil around itself in a pleased manner, so large it almost filled the entire bathroom, when he heard a quiet squeak. "Who— who's there?"

Tom chuckled. He recognised that voice; it was that irritating little Ravenclaw. Warren, if he wasn't mistaken. And she certainly wasn't a pureblood, not with that surname. "Why don't you find out?"

"Are you a _boy_?" The girl sounded far too excited by the prospect. "Oh, you don't belong here. Get out. This is _my_ bathroom."

"You're Myrtle Warren, that little third year." In response, a rustling came from one of the stalls. _Look there_ , Tom hissed, gesturing in the direction of the noise. "Why don't you make me leave?"

The rustling sound again, along with the squeak of trainers against a damp tile floor. Tom smirked. Oh, it seemed his basilisk was to kill earlier than expected. _Silencio_ , he thought with a flick of his wand as he waited with bated breath, eager to observe the effects of the Basilisk's deadly stare on a creature other than a rat.

But the moment itself was anticlimactic. The stall door swung open and Tom caught only a glimpse of a squat figure with long, lank hair and thick, ugly glasses before it crumpled to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. Detachedly, he noted just how easy it was to die, and felt a shiver run up his spine.

Nevertheless, swell of fierce pleasure rushed through him as he regarded her body: his first kill. Standing over her, he murmured, "The first of many."

Then he swept out of the room, commanded the Basilisk to hide itself elsewhere in the castle, and hurried to Transfiguration, where Professor Dumbledore would provide him an ironclad alibi.

. . . . . . . . . .

"Tom, please think carefully. Do you know anything about Ms. Warren's unfortunate demise?"

"No, I was in Professor Dumbledore's class when her body was found," Tom replied nonchalantly, meeting the Headmaster's gaze.

Dumbledore leant forward in his seat. "And before then?"

"I was with my mates," Tom replied easily, "They'll vouch for me."

Dippet sighed. "Albus, I don't see why you insisted we ask Tom. He had nothing to do with Ms. Warren's death."

"I hope that is the case, Dippet," Dumbledore replied, peering over his half-moon spectacles at Tom, the twinkle in his eye uncharacteristically absent. "Murder has a way of splitting the soul."

At those words, Tom's eyes widened.

"Mr Riddle, do you have something to tell us?" Dumbledore asked with a ghost of a smile.

"No, Professor Dumbledore," he answered quickly. "Headmaster, I've just remembered I've an assignment for Herbology tomorrow. May I go?"

"Of course, my dear boy. Don't let Herbert— I mean, Professor Beery— down."

"I wouldn't dream of doing so. Thank you, sir." Hurrying from the room, Tom caught only snatch of Dippet saying, "Albus, Tom would never—" and he smirked at the idea. There were many things he would do to escape his filthy Muggle heritage, and murder was only the beginning.

. . . . . . . . . .

That night, as he frantically searched the Restricted Section for a book he'd only skimmed, one which dealt with immortality and splitting the soul, one which his fourth year self had so foolishly discarded since it didn't pertain to the Chamber of Secrets, one which he desperately needed now. When he finally caught a glimpse of its black, leather-bound spine, he pushed past the other tomes that beguiled him, pulling him in with the faintest touches of their magic on his, for his eyes were only for Secrets of the Darkest Art. After pulling it off the shelf, he opened to the table of contents, finger running down the page until it reached 'Herpo the Foul'.

"Page ninety-four," he muttered, flipping to the page. There, underneath ornate, almost incomprehensible calligraphy reading 'Herpo the Foul', sat a lengthy explanation of that particular Dark wizard's greatest discovery.

Horcruxes.

Immortality, the price of which was murder. Or, as Dumbledore and Herpo himself so eloquently put it, splitting the soul.

Pulling parchment from his bag, Tom copied down the instructions of how to make a horcrux, smirking as he read 'The psyche requires, _at bare minimum,_ a fortnight to repair its tears'. It wasn't too late for him. Myrtle wasn't only his first kill; she was the beginning of something extraordinary.

He'd escaped his filthy muggle father, and now he'd escape death itself.

. . . . . . . . . .

 _I need a place to practice Dark magic, somewhere I won't be found, somewhere private; I need a place to practice Dark magic, somewhere I won't be found, somewhere private; I need..._

Tom paced back and forth opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, his focus razor-sharp as he requested the room where he would create his first horcrux. Secrets of the Darkest Art had insisted the witch or wizard work in secure room, for the horcrux making process was incredibly difficult and draining, and if Tom had used the Chamber of Secrets, where Slytherin's Heir ought to practise Dark magic, he surely would have been caught by some teacher or another. After all, Myrtle had died at its entrance, and they were still investigating the cause of her 'mysterious' death. Therefore, he was using the Room of Requirement.

When the door appeared, Tom strode forward, opened it, and slipped inside.

Once his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw a simple red circle painted on the floor; exactly what was required, for if he wasn't mistaken, that was blood. Now to fulfill the rest of the instructions.

Tom stripped down to his pants, tossed his bag and wand onto a small table which simply appeared, and, carrying only his old leather diary, he walked into the circle.

This was his last chance to back out. His last chance to walk away, let the cracks in his soul heal, and remain mortal.

But he, Tom Marvolo Riddle, Heir of Slytherin, was no mere mortal. He was something more. He was destined for greatness, and these moments of weakness were not to be tolerated. If he did this correctly, he would emerge from his chrysalis not as Tom Riddle, Prefect and Heir to Slytherin, the one who had escaped his muggle heritage, but as Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord, the one who had escaped death itself.

His mind decided, Tom began to craft his horcrux, ripping his soul and molding it into something new, something greater, his resolve unshakeable even through the countless hours of agonizing, excruciating pain: his bones seemed to be melting within him, his blood burning like Fiendfyre through his veins, and his limbs twisted at impossible angles.

When he finally succeeded in separating his soul and shoved it into his diary, the circle burst into dark flames and Tom collapsed, exhausted, into the welcoming blackness.

. . . . . . . . . .

As he came to, he became aware of the darkness encompassing him, and every breath he took smelt of worn leather and ancient parchment. He felt nothing, as if he were suspended in a void; was this a side-effect of crafting Horcruxes? Or had he failed, and this was the afterlife?

Suddenly fearful, he thrashed about in the nothingness and, opening his mouth in a silent scream of rage, he tasted the bitter, chalky, chemical flavor of paper. It was then he realised where he was.

In his diary.

Apparently this portion of his soul had drawn the short straw and ended up, instead of in an immortal body, in a _book_.

Shrieking, he clawed at the emptiness around him. Then, suddenly, a dim light intruded upon his solitude and he froze, his shriek catching in his throat.

Then, as quickly as it came, he was plunged into darkness once again.

. . . . . . . .

An immeasurable time passed in the void. While Tom believed in knowing himself, it was fast becoming ridiculous.

He reflected on his youth spent trying to escape the orphanage; he reflected on his adolescence spent trying to escape the stain of his muggle father's blood; he reflected on his brief time as Heir spent trying to escape death itself.

And look where that had gotten him, he thought bitterly. Locked away in a prison of his own devising, shut away from the world for all eternity, doomed to lose his sanity in the never-ending darkness.

But not yet. He was strong, and his mind would not break. Not yet at least. When the crushing boredom and blackness became too much to bear, Tom would always return to his favorite memory: opening the Chamber of Secrets and killing the mudblood.

In that moment, the world lay at his feet. With the basilisk behind him, his blood was proven older and more powerful than any other's, and death was his to command with a simple hiss.

Sometimes, he worried he was obsessed with that moment, but other times he lost himself in the expression of Myrtle's glazed, slightly surprised face as her body thudded against the floor, the deep, poisonous green of the Basilisk which slithered over the damp tile, or the soft press of his robes against his skin as he raised the hard wood of his yew wand to cast a hasty Silencio.

He reminisced about casting that Silencio the most. How his magic had felt, swirling and churning within him as he shaped it, crafted it, and forced it to his bidding. How it purred within him as he held his wand.

Afterwards, he always felt rather empty— his longing to escape welled up stronger than ever before and he would shed bitter, angry tears before returning to his dream-land of memories, where he could escape his bleak reality.

And those memories carried Tom through his years spent under the Malfoy's drawing room floor.

. . . . . . . .

The darkness was never-changing, soft and velvety, and after what he guessed were centuries, if not aeons, spent within its belly, the brief ray of light which shone into his eyes blinded him.

And it reminded him of the world beyond the diary.

Suddenly, he recalled all his plans, his hopes, and his dreams. They were tempered now with the bitterness of long, lonely years spent in his diary, but first and foremost in his mind stood the Chamber of Secrets. Though his other self had no doubt eradicated the mudbloods, they'd certainly crawled back into the Wizarding world like the cockroaches that they were. Another purge was in order.

So, when the light pierced the darkness again, Tom forced his eyes to stare straight into it, blinking in surprise when a messy hand scrawled, _Dear Diary, I'm Ginny Weasley and I'm starting to Hogwarts this year._

Tom patted himself for a quill and ink, but he had none. He tried summoning them; however, nothing happened save for Ginny's letters quivering in the light.

That gave him an idea. He concentrated on pulling the ink towards him, and watched, pleasantly surprised, as it streamed into his mouth. Then, he spoke. _Hullo, Ginny. It's nice to meet you. My name is Tom Riddle._

His words appeared, floating in the light, and were soon joined by, _Tom? That's a nice name. I wish I had a brother named Tom. Instead, I have Bill and Charlie and Percy and Fred and George and Ron. Fred and George are the worst. They dressed up the attic ghoul in my clothes and told Dad I was terribly sick— and he fell for it! Oh, I was so mad…_

He leant back and resigned himself to listening the child's complaints, sucking away the ink when she filled a page and inserting token comments from time to time. When she finally bid him goodnight, writing, _I've got to go Tom, my mum's coming up the steps_ , he wished her sweet dreams and grinned. He felt energised by their interaction, even more so when he noticed the light pouring into his diary held a reddish-orange hue, as if it were streaming through long, copper-coloured hair.

. . . . . . . .

 _Tom!_ In her excitement, the girl's ink flew in every direction as she scrawled, _I made it into Gryffindor!_ , and Tom eagerly siphoned it off the page.

 _Congratulations, Ginny._

 _Thanks._ She smiled, then frowned slightly as she wrote, _You're not mad I'm not in Slytherin, are you? I know that was your old House—_

 _Why would I be upset?_ he interrupted. _You're where you belong, Ginny._

That made her pause. _Well— it's just that— my brothers would be furious if I weren't a Gryffindor._

Oh, it was too easy to turn her against her family. _I would never do that._

 _Yeah, because you're a Slytherin! You'd be happy if I weren't a lion!_ Her pen hovered over the paper, as if she were unsure how to continue, then she scrawled, _Tom, the Hat almost put me in Slytherin._

Tom raised an eyebrow and noted that, for the first time, he could see her eyes. They were a plain brown and wide with fear. _Then it seems another congratulations is in order. You almost made it into the best House. Snakes are far superior. For one thing, they are easier to draw._ To accentuate his point, he drew a squiggle, labelling it 'snake'.

Laughing, she wrote in reply, _Tom, don't be ridiculous. Lions are better!_ However, her lion resembled a sun with fangs more than an actual animal and she knew it; after crossing it out, she penned, _Forget that._

He sucked in the ink drawing. _Slytherins make no promises._

She snorted. _Well, I've gotta unpack now so good night?_

 _Good night, Ginny._

. . . . . . . .

 _Tom?_ wrote a shaking hand. _I'm scared. I can't remember last night, Hagrid found his roosters dead, and I have feathers on my robes. Tom, what's happening to me?_

He couldn't make out her eyes, but the girl's face was blotchy, as if she'd been crying.

 _Don't worry,_ he replied, savouring her terrified expression. The wide eyes, the furrowed brow, the slight frown that he supposed was hovering over her lips: far more precious than any energy she unwittingly gave him was the slow return of his sight. With each comment she made, each secret she confessed, he saw a little brighter and a little clearer. _Don't be afraid, Ginny._

 _But— but I am._

 _Then tell me about your brothers again. You're not afraid of them anymore, are you?_

The girl blinked as she read his words, then hesitantly picked up her quill. _I guess you're right._ A pause, long enough for Tom to wonder if she'd lost interest, or perhaps recalled that before she'd been possessed, she'd been writing in his diary.

Finally, she sighed, pushed her hair out of her eyes, and began writing. _I got lost earlier and I found Percy in one of the abandoned classroom. He made me promise not to tell anyone, but I'll tell you what he was doing with the Ravenclaw Prefect anyways..._

Deep inside his diary, Tom grinned. Her mouth, which before had been only an indistinct blur of white and red, was now in focus: he could see her biting her lip as she wrote to him, each tooth in clear detail.

Sometimes, escaping was a long, laborious affair, but it made the inevitable freedom ever so much sweeter.

. . . . . . . .

 _Tom._

 _Tom._

 _Tom, I know you can hear me. I have something to tell you._

Exhausted, Tom barely stirred. Possessing Ginny, wearing her body like an ill-fitting glove for the hours and hours required to open the Chamber of Secrets, had drained his energy. Cracking open one eye, he answered, _What, Ginny?_

 _Mrs. Norris is petrified!_ The girl shivered, thrilled and fearful by equal measure, her emotions seeping into the page and invigorating Tom.

 _How?_

 _The Chamber of Secrets. Someone opened it during the Feast._ A pause. _Tom, I don't remember the Feast._ Then, almost hopefully, _Maybe I just drank some spiked pumpkin juice?_

 _Perhaps_ , Tom replied.

 _But I don't think so._ A pause as the girl glanced around furtively, then shut the curtains around her bed. _Tom, what if it was me? What if I'm the Heir?_

Tom smirked. This was almost too easy. _Ginny, if you were the Heir, you'd have been sorted into Slytherin._

 _I know— but— the Hat almost put me in Slytherin and—_

 _But it didn't_ , he interrupted. _That's what matters._

 _Thanks, Tom. For a Slytherin, you're awfully nice._ She twirled her quill, then added, _You're my best mate._

 _Not Harry Potter?_ he teased.

Her eyebrows shot up. _Of course not!_

 _Have you seen him recently?_

 _Only in the halls._ She drooped, then caught herself. _You don't mind if I talk about him?_

 _Not at all._ Tell me more about my enemy. Pour out your soul to me.

 _Well,_ she scribbled, _Ron keeps telling me to leave Harry Potter alone but I want to do something special for Valentine's day_ — _I know it's ages away, but I— well, I_ —

 _You want my advice_ , Tom supplied.

Ginny blushed. _Yes. I'm making a limerick for him and it won't rhyme!_

 _Should I even help this man who's stealing away my best mate's affections?_ Tom asked, drawing a crude, scowling stick figure with a lightning-bolt on its forehead. _I don't approve._

 _Tom!_ Ginny whined. _Please help me._

Erasing his sketch of Harry, Tom replied, _Fine. What do you want to rhyme?_

 _. . . . . . . ._

 _Ginny?_ The light wouldn't let him rest.

 _Ginny?_ If he was to float in his prison and gaze up at what he had lost, even if it was only the canopy of a Hogwarts bed, he was going to work toward escaping.

 _I know you've got my diary open, Ginny. Are you writing essays on your bed again?_

Finally, a pale hand stretched over him wrote, _Yes. I'm trying to remember the ingredients to Forgetfulness Potion._

 _You shouldn't write essays on your bed. You always upset the ink well._

She didn't reply immediately, but Tom was patient. Finally, she scratched, _Not always._

 _Often enough that you should know it's a bad idea_ , Tom countered. When she didn't reply to that, he added, _You hate revising on your bed. Who are you hiding from?_

That got a faint chuckle from her, one that, to Tom's shock, he actually heard. _You know me too well_ , she wrote.

 _Tell me._

 _Fine_. A pause. _I'm hiding from everyone._

 _What did they do?_

She slowly wrote, _They won't shut up about Colin Creevey. He was petrified._

 _You're worried you did it?_

 _No. That's impossible. I was sleeping here when he was found. Chelsea saw me._ Another pause, longer this time. _I'm so relieved it isn't me that I can't stop smiling, even though Colin is petrified. Does that make me a bad person, Tom?_

 _No, not to me,_ he answered. _Never to me_. Then, _Just don't let your brothers see you. Didn't you sit next to Creevey in Charms?_

 _Yes._

 _Then, just for this once, you should revise on your bed._ _Be careful, though._ He sketched an overturned inkwell and wet, illegible papers. _Did you remember the mistletoe berries in your Forgetfulness Potion?_

 _Yes, Tom._

 _Good. Now finish your homework._

 _. . . . . . . ._

 _Tom, there's been a double petrification._ Her pen jabbed at the paper.

 _Oh?_ Tom replied blandly.

 _Yes, and I think it's me— I can't remember anything after Transfiguration—_

 _Ginny, it's not you_.

She wrinkled her nose. _And how do you know that_?

 _Because Rebeus Hagrid is the gameskeeper. When I was in school, he opened the Chamber of Secrets._

 _What?!_ Her eyes shot open and, reassured, her energy once again poured into his diary as she scrawled, _But Hagrid's been over to the Burrow loads of times and Bill says he's half-giant— could he really be the Heir of Slytherin? I almost can't believe it—_

Tom smirked. _But you do_.

 _Yeah, I guess I do. It just doesn't seem right— Hagrid looks so nice—_

 _Appearances are deceiving, Ginny,_ Tom said smoothly. His diary was no exception: though it seemed a harmless, blank book, it contained the Darkest magic he'd ever come across. _He kept an Acromantula in a cupboard. Three people were Petrified and one girl actually died._ _It was terrible..._

. . . . . . . .

When his diary was thrown open, Tom barely had time to adjust to the light before Ginny forcefully penned, _Tom, I know this is all your fault. I asked Chelsea and she said I'd skipped lunch after Transfiguration and when I came back Justin Flinch-Fletchley and Nearly Headless Nick were petrified. You're the one making me attack people!_

 _It's not me_ , he protested, his letters big and bold, his ink splattering in his haste to reply. _I would never do something like that. I told you; it's Hagrid!_

Just from watching her face he knew he'd lost the argument. A tear dripped down her cheek as she wrote, _Tom, you're my best mate. I'll miss you._

Then she threw away her quill and her now-empty hand invaded the light, moving towards him in what was surely an attempt to shut the diary before more of his honeyed words could wriggle into her mind, and Tom cried, _No, Ginny, please, no—_

But his pleas were for naught; the diary was slammed shut, darkness enveloping him once again, and Tom's last glimpse of light was Ginny's regretful face.

. . . . . . . .

Tom resigned himself to a long, dull existence. Little first-year that she was, Ginny wouldn't be able to destroy him, but she could bury him beneath her ratty clothes and her battered schoolbooks and pretend he'd never existed. Perhaps, one day, one of her grandchildren would stumble across him. Then he could escape his Horcrux-prison once again. Life, even tasted through another's body, was undeniably sweet.

Time began to blur in that never-ending blackness, but even so he could tell that barely a month had passed when a blinding light once again pierced his prison, then it dulled and water rippled across his light. Where was he?

He lay there, distracted by the refracting light, and when he finally caught a glimpse of a short, squat, silvery figure sobbing in the corner, he realised he'd returned to where it all began: Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets.

He watched her cry, observing the changes nearly fifty years had wrought in her, but when a boy in black Hogwarts robes, a red and gold tie, and messy black hair approached, Tom's gaze snapped to him. He watched the child approach, taking in his eyes, green as a killing curse, recalling the rhyme he'd painstakingly helped Ginny craft — "his eyes are as green as a fresh-pickled toad" — and realised this was Harry Potter before him. The one who, as a toddler, had defeated him.

He poured his borrowed energy into making the boy notice his diary. While he'd amassed a respectable amount from Ginny, he wasn't certain it was enough to draw Potter's attention... and then a hand was pulling him from a puddle, a face with a lightning-bolt scar was inspecting him, and he willed the word "Hullo" to appear on his diary's pages.

But he'd drained himself. Though the light shone strong and bright, the world darkened and spun around him, and Tom felt himself growing faint; he only caught a glimpse of another boy, one with red-orange hair, behind Potter before he lost consciousness.

. . . . . . . . .

A flood of ink woke him. He eagerly siphoned it from the page, then waited, biding his time.

A few hours later, a black-haired boy opened his diary and dripped a blot of ink into his pages. Tom sucked it up, but still he lacked the power to reply; it wasn't until bright green eyes peered at his pages and _My name is Harry Potter_ appeared before him that Tom was able to muster enough energy to answer.

 _Hello, Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my diary?_

The boy explained he'd found it in a toilet, and Tom quickly steered the conversation to the Chamber of Secrets. _I caught the person who'd opened the Chamber and he was expelled._ According to Ginny, he and her brother were obsessed with discovering who was behind the attacks— he needed to gain Potter's confidences, and to do that, he needed to provide the boy with information. _But the monster lived on, and the one who had the power to release it was not imprisoned._

Potter frowned, then asked, _Who was it last time?_

Oh, this presented a golden opportunity. _I can show you, if you like_ , Tom replied, hoping the boy would agree to enter his memory. It'd be simpler to steal Potter's energy if he were within his pages. _Let me show you._

Potter hesitated, curiosity and caution warring on his face, before he finally wrote, _Ok._

Tom wasted no time in pulling Potter into his memories and latching onto his soul like a leech. The boy's magic poured into him, invigorating him; when Potter tumbled back into reality, Tom was refreshed and ready to converse, but the irritating boy slammed the diary's cover shut and surely went to tell his freckled friend the half-giant oaf had opened the Chamber of Secrets.

. . . . . . . .

Tom waited patiently for Harry Potter to return, dreaming of destroying his enemy and escaping his Horcrux-prison; when Ginny opened his diary, rage flashed through him and he almost snapped at the girl as she wrote hurriedly, _Did you tell him._

But he'd forgotten how little Ginny Weasley was almost completely under his thrall. A few more words, a few more secrets, and her life force would be entirely his. _I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific, Ginny._

 _You know what I mean!_ her pen jabbed into the paper.

 _No, I'm afraid I don't._

She made a disgruntled noise, then wrote, _did you tell him that I have a crush on him?_

And that was enough. He poured out of his diary and into her body, brutally suppressing her soul under his own, and, after picking up his diary, marched her body from the room down to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.

On his way, though, a blank stretch of wall caught his eye, and a wicked smirk stretched across his face. He could kill two birds with one stone. In the Chamber, he was the undisputed master; with the basilisk at his command, he could fend off entire armies. If Dumbledore or Harry Potter were to stumble upon him there, they would assuredly die.

He forced Ginny to raise her wand. With one flick of his wrist the words 'Her skeleton shall lie in the Chamber forever' appeared in blood on the wall. Then, he descended into the Chamber of Secrets, where he could reincarnate undisturbed.

Ginny's soul would feed his own and, through her death, he would finally escape his horcrux prison.

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	3. Dudley and Dementors

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Short Story

 **Prompt:** Dementors [Creature]

 **Word Count (excluding A/N):** 1584

 **Summary** : Dudley's greatest fear is disappointing his mother.

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"Come on, Big D." Piers Polkiss handed him a small Ziploc bag filled with something green and shriveled.

Dudley slowly opened the Ziploc, thinking of Aunt Petunia's hysterical tears when Smeltings suspended him for drug abuse. "This weed?" he grunted.

"Whaddaya think?" Piers snapped, his eyes flashing. "It was hella hard to get, too, so be grateful ya got any."

"Don't be such a fuckin' arse," Dudley told the shorter teen. "I jus' gotta make sure everything's good."

Piers fell silent, and after Dudley spent a few moments inspecting the weed, he blurted out, "You ready to smoke joint?"

"Yeah. Mum's been on my damn case about it, though." She'd been inconsolable for days on end and only him swearing on his dead mother's grave — because if he used drugs again she'd kill herself — not to even _touch_ drugs again had cheered her up. "She doesn't like this."

Piers shrugged. "Eh, forget 'er. Ya got matches?"

"We gotta do it at your house." Pier's mum wouldn't care if they were getting high in the basement, and there was no chance of nosy, gossiping neighbors catching sight of them stoned and reporting to his own mum. The thought sent shivers down his spine. "We'd be outta our minds to smoke here. Let's go."

"Can't," Piers answered shortly. "We gotta do it here— cause— well— my mam says it stinks up the house like something awful."

Dudley grunted. "We're getting high in a fucking dump."

"Yeah," Piers mumbled, slouching and shoving his hands into his pockets. "But don't talk so loud. That old vulture over there might hear."

Dudley glanced over at the faraway park bench where Arabella Figg normally sat. "She's already gone."

"Huh. Then ya gonna try some?"

"Nah, I'm good." Dudley tried to pass the Ziploc bag to Piers. "It's getting cold. We should go in."

But Piers, narrowing his eyes at Dudley, refused to take the Ziploc. "You too chicken?"

"No—" Dudley frowned, not wanting to explain his creeping unease which insisted they leave the park immediately. It was too open, too exposed. "I just don't want to."

"An' I thoughtcha were Big D," Piers scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "But yer afraid of some leaves. Me and the boys're gonna have to start calling ya _Little_ D."

"Fine." Dudley ripped open the bag, dumped some weed into the palm of his hand, and eyed it warily. "You first."

"Yer a bloody coward," Piers laughed. Then he froze mid-laugh, his eyes widening as he began to shiver violently.

Dudley knew he ought to have bristled at the insult or asked Piers what the matter was, but the cold was suddenly intensifying and his knees were knocking together as his entire body shook. "P-P-Piers," he stammered. "Y-y-y-you f-feel that-t?"

Eyes wide, Piers nodded in reply, seemingly too terrified to speak a word, and then his freakish cousin Harry came sprinting towards them, shouting, "Run! Dudley, Piers, run!"

Piers turned tail and raced away, but Dudley was rooted to the spot, torn between his desire to prove that he wasn't a coward, the overwhelming, irrational fear that wouldn't let his legs move, and his brain's orders to get the hell away from whatever freakishness was happening. His breath began to cloud before him in a thick, white fog, the cold invaded his body, sinking deep into his bones, and Dudley found himself sinking into hopelessness and despair.

Then, he heard his mum's scream of horror. "Dudley Vernon Dursley! Why aren't you at Smeltings?"

"I'm sorry, mum," he whispered. "I let you down."

"I got a letter from the school and— and— I didn't believe it and— oh, my ickle Diddykins— how could you do this to me?"

Dudley stood there, awash in fear and shame and guilt, unable to answer.

"Dudders, you c-could have _d-d-d-died_ ," his mother choked out. "Drugs are d-d-dangerous. And what would I do without my little angel? W-w-why did you—"

"I didn't think," he whispered, hanging his head in shame. But an icy cold hand placed itself underneath his chin and began lifting his head; the air around him seemed to whisper, _But it's still your fault, that means nothing_.

Something lifted him from the ground, and as he dangled there in its grasp, his legs brushed against ragged cloth. Death had come to claim him; his mother deserved to live, but he, her worthless, lying, doping boy, did not.

Cold, clammy air ghosted over his face, and Dudley was only faintly aware of his head being forced upwards and his lips puckered, too caught up in his guilt and shame and regret.

He'd betrayed his mother. The woman who'd been there for him since birth, selflessly putting her child ahead of herself. He'd failed her.

Death would certainly have something to say about it.

Soft, squishy, rotting flesh pressed against his lips, and something deep within him shrieked. Yet for all his terror, as he hung there in the creature's embrace, the world seemed to mute: the sounds came as if he were underwater, the colours bleached to a dull grey, and even the feel of dead lips against his own faded to the light fluttering of butterfly's wings.

. . . . . . . .

His cousin was hanging limp in the Dementor's grasp, and for some second Harry believed he'd come too late, that Dudley had already been Kissed.

But either way, he'd try his best to save his cousin. He charged closer, bellowing, _Expecto Patronum!_

A silver stag burst from his wand and bowled into the Dementor, forcing it to relinquish Dudley. The dementor's partner swooped in to Kiss Dudley, but the stag wheeled about and placed itself between the teenager and the foul creature.

While the stag held off the Dementors, Harry ran forward to snap Dudley from his shock and help his cousin to his feet. "Come on," he grunted as he slung Dudley's arm over his shoulder and supported his cousin's weight. "We need to get out of here. My Patronus won't last long."

Dudley blinked, shuffling a few more steps before saying, "Your— your what?"

"My Patronus. It keeps Dementors away."

Dudley shuddered, violent spasms which almost knocked Harry off his feet. "D-Dementor?"

"Yes," Harry replied solemnly. "They guard the Wizarding prison."

"Th-then w-why do I feel so ho-horrid?"

"Because they drain your happiness and make you relive your worst fears." As he said that, Harry glanced back. "Hurry, please, Dudley. We have to get back to the house. We'll be safe there."

"Okay." During the walk home, Dudley focused on not spewing over Harry and putting one foot in front of another. However, his mother's hysterical sobs kept forcing themselves to the forefront of his mind and her wails of, "Oh, Dudders, my little Diddykins, what did I do wrong?"

When they reached the house, Dudley saw Aunt Petunia standing in the yard, her worried expression so similar to the one he came home to after his suspension from Smeltings, and he couldn't take it any longer. With a sob he fell onto his mother, the guilt and shame of having disappointed her rising within him and forcing their way out of his throat, along with his lunch.

Hs retched on the sidewalk, then embraced his mother. "I— I'm sorry," he choked out. "So— so— so sorry, m-m-mum."

"Nonsense, Dudders," she murmured, running her fingers through his hair as she held him tight against her. "It's not your fault." Her tone took on a harsher tone. "It's that _freak's_."

Over his mum's shoulder, Dudley saw his father advancing on Harry, who defiantly stood his ground. "I saved his soul," Harry stated, eyes flashing. "Are you really going to punish me for that?"

"Don't tempt me, boy," his father growled, advancing on Harry, fists clenching as if he wished to punch the boy then and there. He towered over Harry and he spat, "Now what did you do to Dudley."

"I didn't do anything!"

"Stop lying!" Vernon roared, the veins in his neck bulging.

"D—Dad, he's t-t-telling the truth," Dudley stammered. Then, with more authority, "Leave him alone. Ju-just go back into the house. Please."

"Fine." His father stalked indoors and, once he'd left, Harry collapsed to the sidewalk.

"Thanks, Big D."

"Don't call me that anymore," he snapped, only realising after his harsh he'd sounded. "Sorry, Harry. Just— could you go inside?"

Harry laughed humorlessly. "If I did, I might not come out. I'll sit in the backyard if you need time."

"Thanks." Dudley watched his cousin shut the gate behind him, then turned to his mother. "Mum, I want to say sorry."

"For what, dear? It's not your fault. It's that freak's." His mother grimaced.

"No, it's my fault." Dudley cast his eyes down. "I shouldn'ta been in the park in the first place. I was with Piers—"

"Piers?" she interrupted. "I told you to stop seeing him!"

"Yes, mum, I know. But I wanted some— I wanted— well, I wanted some weed."

"Ah." His mother stood up and dusted herself off. "I see."

Dudley staggered to his feet as well and caught her hand "Mum! Please! I can't lie to you. Those creatures that attacked me? Well— they were—" He glanced around the empty street, then lowered his voice. "They're bloody terrifying and make you relive your greatest fear. And mine was disappointing you."

He paused, made sure his mother was watching, then added, "And that's why I'm never going to do drugs again. Don't worry about me anymore, mom."

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	4. Matchmaking

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Short

 **Prompt:** "If I could turn back time and undo what I've done…" [Speech]

 **Word Count (excluding A/N):** 1125

 **Summary:** Ron's ignoring Hermione again, so Harry decides his friend could use some competition — in the form of Draco Malfoy.

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"Oh, if I could turn back time and undo what I've done…" Rom moaned, burying his head between his hands. "Hermione would never have married that Slytherin wanker."

Harry rolled his eyes at Ron's theatrics and patted his friend on the back. "Don't be so melodramatic, Ron. It's only one date."

"Yeah, but I saw how his pants bulged as he left the house! I'm telling you, Harry— what if it was a _ring_? I can't match one of his fancy Malfoy rings! You've seen the one in my sock drawer!"

"Ron, that's ridiculous," Harry said, smirking as he signalled Ron a refill from the bartender. "It's their first date; even purebloods don't move that fast. Plus, I have it on good authority Draco's not attracted to Hermione."

"That tosser's Draco now, is he?" Ron turned to face Harry, his eyes remarkably bright for someone who'd downed nearly seven shots in quick succession. "I wonder what changed _that_."

Harry flushed. "N-nothing," he stammered. "B-but he's dating Hermione now, so I thought I should at least call him by his first name."

Diverted, Ron reddened, his hands flexing murderously around his shot glass. "Ferret-face had better watch his step around Hermione. If he so much as touches her—"

"Ron," Harry interrupted, "he's sure to kiss her goodnight."

"You're right Harry, but if one of his hands 'slip' I'll—" Then his eyes widened in horror. "What if that bulge was something _else_? He'll ruin her! And since she doesn't have any Wizarding relatives, we'll have to avenge her honor!"

Harry only kept from laughing with extreme force of will; once he was certain he could speak without laughing, he said as solemnly as he could manage, "I'm sure it won't come to that."

"B-b-but if he's given her a ring—" Ron slurred, the copious amount he'd drunk finally catching up to him.

"Then you can give her one from the Black or Potter vaults," Harry replied, rolling his eyes. "Though Hermione doesn't care about the ring as much as the man."

"That's what I'm saying, Harry— girls care about the 'mmm-man' more than his ring—" Ron gave Harry an exaggerated wink.

Wrinkling his nose, Harry glanced around the Leaky Cauldron to ensure no one had heard, then frowned at Ron. "I think you've had enough to drink," he said decisively. "Come back to my flat. I've got some Sober-Up."

"Thanks, Harry. You're—" Ron tried to get to his feet, but lurched alarmingly to one side instead. "You're a good mate. Mmmm— my-my best mate."

"Glad to hear it." Harry supported Ron as they hobbled to the door. "Now, you've got to Side-Along, so hold on tight."

* * *

"Honestly, what's taking Harry so long?" Hermione said, frowning as she checked her wristwatch.

"I don't want to be here any more than you do, Granger," Draco replied, frowning as he poured himself a glass of the restaurant's supposedly 'fine' wine. "The press is going to have a field day— Muggleborn and Malfoy Married?" At the idea, he snorted.

Hermione chuckled as well. "Why are you doing this, anyways?"

Draco took a sip of wine, raised an eyebrow, then answered, "That's for me to know and you to find out, Granger."

"Well, Malfoy," she huffed, "aren't you just a man of mystery. Why Harry insisted I go on a date with _you_? You don't even like me."

Draco made a noncommittal noise which Hermione apparently took as encouragement, for she added, "So why am I here? Tell me!"

But instead of answering her question, he lifted his glass. "Let's drink to your ignorance, Granger. Cheers!" He began to take a swig, but as he did so, he noticed a shock of ginger hair at the edge of his vision. "It seems my ordeal is coming to a close, and my reward is fast approaching…"

"What do you mean by that?" Granger seemed exasperated, but then she spun about and saw Ron approaching. Her face lit up up. "Ron! Wonder what he doing here?"

"You mean you can't guess?" Malfoy clucked his tongue. "And you were top of our class. Well, I suppose you were a Gryffindork…"

To his surprise, she laughed at that, high and loud and utterly false. And when he shot a look at her, she smirked and whispered, "I'm not completely clueless, Malfoy. Now chuckle."

Bemused, Draco did as she requested, even reaching over and entwining her fingers with his. She made to pull away, but before she could, Ron Weasley appeared at their table.

"What a cozy scene," he snarled. "You two little lovebirds."

Hermione twitched, but continued to hold Draco's hand. "I've actually enjoyed my time with Ma— Draco. I've had a nice time with Draco. _He_ , at least, listens to what I have to say."

"Yeah right," Ron growled. "He just wants you 'cause you're a war heroine. I can't believe you went out with _him_! What _happened_?"

"Harry told me to have dinner with Draco here, and I'm glad I did."

Ron snarled, "Right, 'cause dinner with Malfoy—" Then the full meaning of Hermione's words hit him. "Harry? Harry told you that?"

"Yes, Harry told her that." Malfoy regarded the pair with exasperation. "Now, if you'll excuse me, it seems that my part in this charade is finished, and I bid you goodnight. Waiter!"

The maitre d'eur hurried over and Malfoy quickly paid, eager to escape Weasley's presence; however, he wasn't fast enough, for the redhead caught his sleeve and asked, "What about your food?"

"Oh, that?" Draco wriggled out of his grip. "You may have it. I haven't touched it. Now, I have a friend to visit." With that, he hurried out of the restaurant and apparated away.

* * *

Draco threw himself onto the couch with a groan. "Honestly, Harry, I don't know why I agreed to help you play match-maker between your friends."

"Because you love me?" Harry suggested, drying his hands on his robes as he entered the living room. "Now, I hope you brought wine."

"Of course," Draco replied, rolling his eyes as got to his feet and he pulled the vintage from his pants pocket. "Your selection is pitiful."

"Well, your cooking is terrible, and man can't live on wine alone." Then, Harry burst into laughter. "The wine was in your pants?"

"Yeah," Draco said defensively. "What about it?"

"Nothing— just that Ron kept going on and on about what that bulge signified." Harry snorted. "As if you'd ever be interested in Hermione."

Draco drew closer and ran a possessive hand along Harry's cheek. "She's definitely not my type, but I do know someone who is—"

"So do I, but not until after dinner," Harry interrupted with a smirk. "We'll need our energy for later…"

Draco scowled. "Fine. It's a good thing I love your cooking, Harry."

"And I your wine, Draco. Now come on— I made sauteéd broccoli and charbroiled filets of salmon…"

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	5. Meet My Mother

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Drabble

 **Prompt:** Draco/Luna [Couple]

 **Word Count (excluding A/N):** 334

 **A/N:** Luna (briefly) quotes Sir Francis Bacon

 **Summary:** Draco brings Luna home to meet his mother.

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"Mother?" Draco warily entered the room. "I want you to meet someone—"

Before he'd even finished speaking, a witch floated into the room. She wore a loose-fitting robe with strange symbols painted on it, but it wasn't her clothing that caught Narcissa's attention. It was her shoes. Or the lack thereof.

Narcissa's nose wrinkled at the muddy, bare feet atop her imported Persian rug. "How nice to meet you, Miss—"

"Lovegood," Draco hurriedly supplied, stepping between the girl and his mother. "Miss Luna Lovegood."

"Ah, Lovegood." Narcissa sniffed. "I knew her father. Quite a Light family."

Luna stepped around Draco and regarded her with a dreamy gaze before murmuring, so softly that Narcissa almost didn't hear, "In order for the light to shine so brightly, the darkness must be present."

Well, this Lovegood was certainly a surprise. "What do you mean, dear?"

"The Nargles have infected a lot of Wizarding Britain," the witch answered, her gaze flitting to the chandelier. "And your home seems to be their breeding ground."

Narcissa's eye twitched — she so hated indirect answers — and Draco, no doubt seeing her movement, ran forward, pulled a chair out, and all but pushed Luna into it, muttering, "Please, darling, do stay focused."

The girl hummed in response, tracing his jawline with slender fingers. "Love is such a confounding thing."

"It is, Luna, it truly is," Draco replied as he sat down at the table as well and poured tea for his girlfriend, his hand shaking. "I'll never understand it."

Narcissa glanced from one to the other, taking in her nervous son and her nonchalant future daughter-in-law, and thought of Lucius: how she'd liked but never loved him, how lonely she'd been even at his side, and how she'd sworn no child of hers would ever enter a loveless marriage.

"Love may be confusing, children," she said, "but it is also a gift beyond measure." Then she smiled a full smile, one which actually reached her eyes. "I approve of her, Draco."


	6. Fiendfyre

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Themed

 **Prompt:** Setting something on fire [Action]

 **Word Count (excluding A/N):** 2133

 **A/N:** Draco paraphrases Machiavelli at one point.

 **Summary:** Before, the flames comforted him. Now, Draco can only remember Vincent's death.

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The fire in the Slytherin Common Room danced, its flames crackling and snapping at those who dared venture too near; from the safe, plush armchair, Draco Malfoy stared into its depths, his mind miles away.

If he looked deep enough, he'd forget the unfamiliar surroundings and, for a moment, be transported back to Malfoy Manor. His home. Hogwarts wasn't his home, not yet, even though he'd spent years listening to his parents wax eloquent about it. He may know his way through its halls remarkably well for a first-year, but that did not a home make.

Yet this fire in the Slytherin Common Room _was_ home. It reminded him of everything he'd left behind: his mother's laugh, his father's stern but approving look, and the hours they'd spent in the library teaching him spells, because 'for a Prince, it is better to be feared than loved'. And he would be a Prince.

As he envisioned his future, dozing there before the fire, a lazy smile stretched across his face. He knew without doubt that he'd adjust to Hogwarts, but it'd always be this crackling fire that brought him peace of mind, for it was his security.

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco scowled, angrily running a hand through his hair. "What don't you understand, woman?" he snapped. "I'm fine. Perfectly fine. Now get your nose outta my fuckin' business!"

"Drakey, just tell me what's wrong!" she cried, her eyes blotchy.

"I can't," he answered sharply. "Now get away from me, you damn bitch!"

Pansy froze. "I see," she answered coolly, "that's how it's going to be. Then I hope you can pull your head out of your arse and find yourself a new girlfriend, Draco Malfoy." Seething, she spun on her heel and stalked away.

"Like hell I will!" Draco shouted after her, watching her march away. "And she'll be damn better than you, Parkinson!"

Pansy replied by slamming the door to her dorms. The noise reverberated in the silence, and after a stunned second the entire Common Room broke into whispers, no doubt gossipping about their Prefects' public break-up.

Draco frowned, but didn't try to silence them; instead, he jerked his head at Crabbe and Goyle. "C'mon. The bloody cabinet needs more work."

And work he did, sweating and swearing over it until his stomach cramped painfully and he _knew_ beyond a shadow of doubt the Common Room would be empty at this late hour.

After disillusioning himself and Crabbe, they crept back to the dungeons. When they'd entered their Common Room, Draco sank gratefully into the plush armchair before the fire and muttered, "Go to bed, Vince. I'll be up soon enough."

"'kay," Vincent grunted, lumbering up to the boy's dorms.

Draco waited until his footsteps ceased, then whispered, "I'm sorry, Father."

The slightly-green flames flickered in response, and if he squinted Draco could almost see his father there, Floo-calling him as he'd done so many times before to reassure him all would be well.

But that couldn't be. His father was in Azkaban, being slowly driven mad by dementors. And unless he fixed the Vanishing Cabinet and let the Death Eaters into the school, his entire family would waste away in a cold, bleak cell— or the Dark Lord would 'mercifully' kill them.

Suddenly overcome with angry, Draco stalked to his dorm. The fire had always been his friend; however, tonight it only reminded him of days gone by, when his future had been secure and he hadn't had to fear for his family's life or his own.

. . . . . . . . . . .

The corridor stretched empty before him, silent save for his, Crabbe, and Goyle's breathing and the faint sounds of battle.

It was peaceful, tranquil even, and Draco began to believe that they'd never find Potter here, that Potter'd already offed the Dark Lord and the noises below were in celebration, not battle. But his dreams were dashed, when suddenly the Room of Requirement produced a door and _Potter_ of all people appeared from thin air, glanced about the seemingly vacant corridor, and stepped inside.

Crabbe started forward, but Draco grabbed his arm and whispered, eyes flashing, "Not yet."

"Fuck off," Crabbe grunted, shrugging off Draco's hand. "I want Potter."

"Let them split up first— they said they were looking for a diadem—"

But his logic fell upon deaf ears. Crabbe got to his feet, grunted to Goyle, and the two entered the Room of Requirement, leaving Draco alone in the passage, where the screams and spells and explosions from the battle below echoed around him. After standing there at a loss of what to do, he finally decided to follow: perhaps he could keep them out of trouble. The Dark Lord insisted on killing Potter himself, but Vincent had been rather... enthusiastic lately. Personally, Draco blamed the Carrows for making his minion unruly.

Draco stepped into the Room of Hidden Things and blanched. The Carrows had had more impact than he'd thought. Vincent stood there, his wand aimed at Potter's back, whispering a Dark, Dark curse to melt the Golden Boy's bones and boil his blood and shred his skin.

Vincent was a _fool_. But luckily for him, Draco was there to save his sorry arse. He cast a wordless Silencing Charm on his friend— the Dark Lord would have _murdered_ Vince for such disobedience, but not before torturing him and the Crabbe family to insanity.

Vincent's eyes bulged when he found himself Silenced. Goyle, who'd been eagerly watching Potter, scowled at the interruption and began to lift his own wand— it was then Draco realised that he couldn't stop them, and that Potter would have to save himself.

The Golden Boy still had his back to them, searching frantically through the junk piled in the room, when suddenly he stilled and stared at an ancient, tarnished tiara and reached out to it—

"Hold it, Potter," Draco snarled, raising his mother's wand.

Potter spun, raising his own wand as well, and Draco's eyes widened as he recognised it— its hawthorn wood engraved with loopy swirls, its almost inaudible _thrum_ as it readied itself to cast — "That's my wand, Potter."

Potter snorted. "Not anymore. Finders, keepers," he scoffed.

Draco's fingers tightened around his borrowed wand as the rage, burning red-hot, rose within him. But then he heard the whisper "Finite Incantatem" and saw Greg wave his wand over Vincent.

His blood froze. Potter didn't seem to notice anything, still too focused on the diadem for his own damn good, so it seemed it was up to him, Draco Malfoy, to save Potter's sorry skin. Somewhere out there, Dumbledore was laughing at him.

He turned on Vincent and cried, "Petrificus Totalus!"

But Vincent dodged away from the grey light, pointing his wand at the junk piled around them and shouting "Descendo!"

The towering columns shivered, then, with a dull groan, collapsed on top of them, burying them in dust and mold and musty old things. Hacking, Draco dug his way out of the mess just in time to see Vincent again levelling his wand at Potter.

"Stop!" he rasped desperately. "The Dark Lord—"

"I don't take orders from you," Vincent growled. "You and your dad are finished, Malfoy. Crucio!"

The Dark spell flew at Potter, but the boy dodged. Draco prayed for someone, anyone to intervene before Vincent killed Potter and the Dark Lord punished them all— and then, as if someone had heard his prayer, Granger appeared and shouted in alarm.

Both Greg and Vincent turned. "Granger," Greg grunted in surprise.

"Mudblood filth," Vincent snarled, a strange light in his eyes. "Avada Kedavra!"

Granger dodged the deadly green light and retaliated with a hex of her own, which Crabbe blocked.

Then, things went to hell. Weasley ran into the fray, Goyle collapsed, Potter suddenly had Goyle's wand, then Crabbe was shouting, "You like it hot, mudblood?" and a monstrous snake of fire was devouring the wardrobe. It turned to Vincent, who grinned at it, and for a split-second Draco convinced himself that Vincent had it under control.

And then Vincent's joy turned to fear and the snake lunged at them with empty, ravenous eyes.

Draco grabbed Greg and sprinted away, losing track of Potter and Vincent, too preoccupied with finding shelter from the inferno raging around them. As the fire blazed on, consuming the entire room, Draco found himself clutching the still-unconscious Greg as they huddled atop a cabinet. The flames held creatures which snarled, hissed, and cackled at him. Draco found himself wondering how he'd ever found comfort in a fire, for this conflagration was sure to devour him and Greg.

He'd resigned himself to burning alive like the witches and wizards of old, when suddenly Potter swooped down. "Take my hand!" the Gryffindork shouted over the roar of the fire.

But the broom could never carry them all, Draco thought desperately, tightening his grip around Greg while simultaneously reaching out to Potter. They had to escape, yet he couldn't leave his friend to burn—

Weasley and Granger appeared behind Potter, each riding their own brooms, and Weasley, Merlin bless him, landed atop the cabinet, hauled Greg onto his broom, and kicked off.

"Are you coming or not?" Potter cried, all previous antagonism gone. "Get on!"

Draco scrambled onto the broom behind Potter and grabbed the man's waist, eyes shut tight as they soared away not a second too soon. When he looked back, the cabinet had disappeared, and a sea of fire was all that remained. Ahead of them crackled that same sea of fire, where creatures with terrible, empty eyes prowled.

The hot, dry air buffeted their broomstick, and for one terrifying moment the broom began to dip and Draco feared it'd died and they'd now fall into those ravenous flames; then he realised Potter was _diving_ , diving down towards that stupid tiara and the fiery pheonix below and he shrieked, "Stop! Potter! Stop!"

But Potter paid him no heed, swooping down and catching the diadem as it flew into the phoenix's maw. As it sat there glittering on his arm, a thick, dark liquid leaking out, Draco found himself grateful Potter was the youngest Seeker of the century. If he weren't so damn talented, they certainly would have died in Vincent's fire.

Vincent.

His corpse was somewhere behind them, either charred beyond recognition or simply ashes in that great Room.

And it could have been them. It could so easily have been him, or Goyle, or even Potter who had to defeat the Dark Lord before his Lord punished him and Goyle for their disobedience—

Potter swerved again, jarring his thoughts; the flaming chimera missed them by only a few inches, then before he knew it they'd flown through the doorway and into the hall.

Draco staggered off the broom, coughing and breathing in the fresh, sweet air. Ash clung to him, sticking to his sweat-soaked form, yet he only thought of Vincent, of how easily his lifelong friend had died in the flames.

Fire was dangerous, destructive, and deadly. It devoured anything in its power.

As Potter and his friends raced away, Draco leant against the wall, swearing he'd never burn alive as Vincent had.

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco awoke in a cold sweat. The fiery dragon had winked at him as it tore Vincent apart, and Vincent's screams still echoed in Draco's ears as he stared up at the Hogwarts canopy draped over his bed and listened to the Theo and Blaise's quiet breathing.

Taking a deep breath, Draco tried to forget his nightmare and drift back to sleep. But it was impossible. He lay there on his bed, wide awake in the middle of the night, until he finally admitted defeat.

After pulling his blanket around him, he descended into the Slytherin Common Room and sank into a leather couch by the fire. As a child he'd always done so after a bad dream, staring into its flames for comfort, but now the dancing flames only reminded him of Vincent and how the dragon had devoured his friend then turned to him, promising his death...

Eyes wild, Draco scrambled away, drawing his wand as he did so and shouting, "Aguamenti!"

To his relief, the water extinguished the flames, though as he stared at its ashes he thought again of Vince— all that would remain of him now was ashes, unless Fiendfyre burned purer than any other fire—

Cutting off that train of thought, Draco hurried back to his bed and began checking his fireproofing wards and charms, recasting them once he finished. Only when he'd triple-checked his protections and recast them twice that he finally lay back in his bed to relax.

As a child, he had been blind. Fire had been his friend. But now, an adult, Vincent's death had opened his eyes. Fire was a foe, a deadly foe.

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	7. A Walk in the Rain (Jily)

H **ouse:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Drabble

 **Prompt:** Umbrella [Object]

 **Word Count (excluding A/N) :** 881

 **A/N:** For The fanster, who had better come back next round — otherwise, I chase her down and set Peter on her. Anyways, this is my attempt to take up the Jily mantle in her stead. Enjoy!

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The sky was dark, thick with menacing black clouds, and Lily stifled a curse. This was definitely _not_ the time to be out in a deserted part of Hogsmeade. She glanced at the Shrieking Shack, but even she wasn't that desperate — yet. Clutching her books even more protectively to her chest, she hurried past the decrepit building and under a tree. There, she balanced her purchases on her knee, reluctant to rest them on the muddy ground, and dug through her purse for her wand.

Just as her fingers closed around the smooth polished wood, a crack of lightning split the sky, followed instantaneously by the deep boom of thunder as it began to pour.

"Crap!" Lily shouted, hastily casting _Impervius_ over herself and her belongings. There were a few seconds of blessed escape from the rain; then, to her surprise, the fat drops of rain began to hit her skin, hair, and clothing.

"What the heck is going on?" she cried. She may be a witch but she wouldn't melt in this rain — however, those books were ancient! Priceless! She'd spent a pretty penny getting these Animagi books to further her studies! Not get ruined in the rain! (And certainly not to provide conversation material with James, who she vaguely remembered being interested in Animagi in fifth year). "Drat! _Impervius_!"

This time, the spell fizzled out even quicker. Lily began to panic. "Fuck! I mean, truck! Truck and luck and duck and muck and oh those bloody stupid books!" she cried, trying desperately to shield the books with her body.

A low chuckle sounded on her left, and when Lily pushed her sodden hair from her eyes she saw a smug James Potter holding a deep red umbrella and smirking down at her. His hazel eyes were warm as he looked at her, his hair practically begging to flattened and tamed by her hands, and his robes— his robes were spotless and dry as a bone. "I didn't know you had it in you to curse like that," he remarked, raising an eyebrow. "What else lurks behind that goody-two shoes muggleborn Head Girl façade?"

Desperation made her blunt. "Potter," she growled, "Help me and I'll do anything!"

"Anything?" he asked with a roguish grin, waggling his eyebrows at her.

Irritated by his insinuation, she huffed and shoved her books at him, watching with unholy glee as he staggered under their weight. "Almost anything," she qualified.

"Would you carry these books back to castle for me then?" James groaned. "I'm going to put my back out— what are these, anyways?" He peered at them and she watched his face change as he read the title of the top one — _Animagi Through the Ages_. His eyes widened, then he said hesitantly, "Why'd you buy this, Lily?"

"It's just a little light reading," she answered with a sniff. "Now help me up."

"This is anything but light," he laughed, groaning as he held the books and his umbrella precariously in one hand and helped Lily to her feet with the other. Then, Lily took the umbrella and together the two walked back to the castle. They didn't speak much, just stole glances at one another, but as they walked through the entrance hall James suddenly spoke.

"Shit, put this on," he said, shrugging out of his robe and handing it to her.

She gaped at him, taken aback, then looked down at her beautiful lacy white top.

It was translucent from the rain.

She froze in shock, and then her shock transformed to anger as she realised why James had been stealing glances at her. Or, more accurately, her bra. "J-J-James—," she sputtered, almost incoherent with rage.

"Just enjoying the view," he smirked.

"James Potter, you arrogant—"

"Don't forget, I saved your books," he interrupted. "Now, I think I'll claim my reward…"

And he leaned over her, the books forgotten on the floor, the umbrella falling with a clatter as he kissed her in the entrance hall. It was a chaste kiss, only on the lips, but then Lily snaked her arms around his neck and ran her fingers through his hair and molded herself against him; in face of such temptation James was unable to hold back, and before either of them knew it they were full-on snogging in the Entrance Hall.

. . . . . . . . . .

When James woke the next morning, Sirius, Remus and Peter were sitting on his bed. "Spill," Sirius directed. "We spent our entire Hogsmeade evening in the Shrieking Shack."

James leant back but said nothing.

"Well, it wasn't a total waste. I enjoyed seeing little Lily-flower in a translucent top," Sirius drawled, winking at Peter, who flushed. "And I think Pete did too."

James sat bolt upright. "Don't ever talk about my girlfriend like that," he threatened. "Or I'll make sure you can't ever talk again."

Sirius laughed. "Oh, so it's official! Congratulations, James!" While slapping his friend on the shoulder, he pulled out bottles of butterbeer. "I think this calls for a toast."

Grinning now, James took the proffered bottle. "A toast to us, Marauders."

"And a toast to Remus, who thought fast and reversed the _Impervius_."

The four clinked their bottles together and drank, awash in self-satisfaction: James had finally got the girl.


	8. Unforgivable

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Short

 **Prompt:** Unforgivable

 **Word Count (excluding A/N):** 997

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A knock on the door.

Alice paused in fixing her robes. Turning over her shoulder, she called, "Frank, don't go yet. Let Amelia see Neville before he's shipped off to his Gran's."

An answering shout came from the living room of their little home, and Alice hurried to the door, grinning at the prospect of seeing her old friend after so many years apart. She threw open the door, ready to welcome Amelia in— but instead of a smiling petite blonde on her doorstep, there stood four figures clad in black robes and bone-white masks led by none other than Bellatrix Lestrange.

Alice's grin faltered, vanishing completely as it sunk in exactly who was on her doorstep. Then she spun and shouted, "Frank! Take Neville and go! It's—"

But Bellatrix flicked her wand and Alice found herself silenced and frozen, unable to move or make a sound.

"Oh, Longbottom," the Dark witch sneered as she motioned the other Death Eaters to enter the house. "I couldn't have you warning your hubby — it'd spoil all the fun!" Cackling, Bellatrix lifted her wand, and Alice cringed, instinctively trying to curl away from the witch and the pain she promised.

Yet she didn't feel any pain strike through her, only the light sensation of a spell being lifted. When she gazed up at her captor, a question in her eyes, Bellatrix smirked. "I want to hear you scream, pet. And you will scream. Crucio!"

Pain.

Excruciating pain.

Alice writhed underneath the Cruciatus, her blood burning, her bones grinding together, her spine snapping, her back bending and bowing as her limbs contorted themselves into unnatural positions— and throughout it all, she screamed until her vocal chords bled.

Yet her mental walls remained strong and unshakeable. Frank and Neville escaped. She knew they had. They'd be okay. They'd bring help. She could survive until then. The thought comforted her, shoring up her mental walls as the Dark curse tore through her mind, searching for any weakness in her defenses. Neville was safe.

When Bellatrix finally lifted the curse, Alice collapsed to the ground, her muscles still spasming as she lay there on the grass. She shut her eyes, trying to gather her strength before Bellatrix began the torture anew; however, the Dark Witch grabbed her hair and twisted it, making Alice cry out in pain, all while purring, "Open your eyes, Longbottom."

Alice shakily did as Bellatrix commanded, and when she saw flames licking at the walls of her and Frank's home, she was unable to hold back a horrified gasp; when she realised it was Fiendfyre, tears formed in the corner of her eyes, though she refused to let them fall. She wouldn't give Bellatrix the satisfaction.

But Bellatrix was already grabbing her chin and forcing her gaze away from the house and to the body lying beneath one of the Death Eaters. Its robes were bloodied and its breathing ragged — when Alice realised who it was, her heart caught in her throat. "No…" she moaned, "Frank… no…"

She was still staring in disbelief at his cold, crumpled body when Bellatrix lifted her wand again. "Crucio."

This time, it wasn't pain; it was agony. Pure, unadulterated agony. Alice thrashed wildly, her eyes rolling back in her head while her own cries echoed endlessly in her ears, her skin peeling back layer by slow layer as her eyes boiled in their sockets. Shrieking, Alice shook as her mental walls shuddered against the Dark curse's onslaught and the pain, the agony, the torture.

After what felt like years, the curse dissipated and Alice sank bonelessly into the ground, her every nerve protesting at the slightest stimulation and her limbs twitching randomly as she was wracked by the aftershocks of the Cruciatus. When Bellatrix leaned closer to Alice's sweaty, filthy form, Alice was unable to shrink away, too exhausted to move.

"Where's your brat, Longbottom?" Bellatrix crooned, and the statement made Alice's blood run cold. Neville. Where was Neville? She'd already lost Frank— she couldn't lose her son too— she couldn't—

Smirking, Bellatrix affirmed her worst fears. "He's dead."

Alice let out an anguished, broken cry; she'd lost her boy, her beautiful baby boy, and it was all her fault. If she'd just let Frank leave, Neville would have been at his Gran's when the Death Eaters attacked…

Tears ran freely down her cheeks as she choked out, "No— no— not Neville— that's— that's—"

"Not fair?" Bellatrix smirked, her eyes glowing as she watched Alice sob. "The world isn't fair. Unforgivable? He didn't last a minute under the Crucio."

Alice shrieked at the thought of her son spending his last moments in terror and agony; she wept, the pain of her body far overshadowed by the pain of her mind. She was so distraught that she offered no further resistance against the Cruciatus: there was nothing left to live for. Not with both Frank and Neville gone. Spidery thin cracks splintered through her mental walls and something deep within her broke, wrenched apart by her terrible loss; confronted by such overwhelming grief, her mind shattered.

After that, everything was muffled, as if she were only an uninterested observer dispassionately watching her own body twitch and jerk and spasm. No further cries left her lips. The dark figure above her threw down its arms in frustration and disappeared, the other dark shapes quickly following suit.

Still lying broken on the ground, Alice smiled serenely, tears streaking down her muddy, bloody, dusty cheeks as she gazed at the empty space where those dark figures had been. She was glad they were gone, though she couldn't remember why. She only knew that they'd taken something important from her, something that she could never get back. And it was somehow her fault, all her fault.

Those dark figures had done something truly unforgivable. Yet she knew she wouldn't blame them; no, she would only blame herself. Her world had shattered around her, and it was no one's fault but her own.


	9. A Love Potion

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Themed

 **Prompt:** Potion

 **Word Count (excluding A/N):** 1175

 **Summary:** Merope Gaunt discovers Tom Riddle isn't as enamored with her as she'd thought.

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It'd started when her monthly bleeds ceased. When she, Merope Gaunt, had begun to believe her husband loved her, truly loved her, and would love her even without the Amorentia. Perhaps her optimism stemmed from her suspicion she was carrying his child, or perhaps it was only wishful thinking; nonetheless he seemed enamoured with her, much more than usual. Underneath his potion-induced haze, he loved her. She just knew it. And it was a great relief.

Ever since she'd first dosed him with love potion, starting their courtship, she'd been haunted by doubts. What if he didn't love her? She knew she'd used Amorentia to bewitch and ensnare his senses at first, but even then she'd hoped that, in time, he'd come to love her, for she loved him and couldn't live without him. And while he may not reciprocate her feelings, Merope _needed_ to know how he felt about her, for sometimes as she lay awake at night, listening to his deep, steady breathing at her side, contemplating their sham of a marriage, Morfin would appear. "Ugly," he would jeer, cackling and pointing at her. "Disgusting. Even a Muggle doesn't want you without love potion."

She'd freeze, the breath catching in her throat. Those old, half-forgotten taunts re-opened festering wounds and forced her to confront a terrible thought — What if Tom didn't love her? She loved him beyond words, but he still might not love her… Shaken, she'd be unable to respond beyond whispering, "He wants me. I know he wants me."

But Morfin would only laugh at her words, his eyes rolling wildly in all directions as he spat, "That's the potion, Merope. You idiot."

"No, no, it's more than the potion!" she'd cry, tears welling in her eyes even as Morfin laughed, "Filthy, lying Squib," before disappearing.

Those poisonous words haunted her. When Tom held her in his tender embrace, they would echo in her ears and she'd burst into sobs. His caresses which once had felt so loving now felt false as his fingers fumbled over her bare skin. His sweet whispered nothings _were_ nothing, for it was only the potion speaking; Merope would still smile and kiss him, but all the while she heard her brother's voice whisper, "Filthy lying Squib. This isn't love. No one could love you."

It was an awkward, uncomfortable state of existence, one which Merope both loved and hated. She had Tom Riddle, but she didn't _have_ him, heart and body and mind. She had his body, and the potion held both his heart and his mind. He'd never choose to be with her of his own free will, though she desired that beyond anything else. If she knew he loved her, truly and absolutely, it would silence Morfin's whispers and make her blindingly happy. But that would never happen, not unless she stopped dosing him with love potion.

Finally, she could bear it no longer. Her belly was already swollen with a child, she was carrying _his_ child, and even if he didn't love her — which he _did_ — he wouldn't leave her. He couldn't. Tom Riddle was too good a man Too honorable. He'd never leave her, not if she were pregnant with his child. He wouldn't. And no matter what Morfin said, he did love her beneath the Amorentia. She knew it.

Nonetheless, she waited with bated breath when she withheld his evening dose of love potion. Dinner that night was a strained affair, for he didn't speak much, instead only pushing his food around his plate in a look of studied concentration. Merope put it down to the potion leaving his system, but she still worried. So after she'd cleaned up the meal, she cautiously approached him where he sat on their sofa, swirling the wine in goblet round and round. "Tom?" she asked, "Why aren't you on the loveseat?"

He looked up and met her gaze with eyes far clearer than they'd been in months. "Because I don't love you, Merope."

Her breath caught in her throat. "B-b-but Tom— you love me— I know you do— say you love me—"

"No, I don't love you, you _witch_ ," he snarled, and that word, which Merope had so longed to hear from her father and brother, made her flinch as Tom, her Tom, said it to her, for from him, it was a curse. "You fed me some foul concoction to make me yours and I'm ashamed of what I've done — I've gone and broken Cecilia's heart, my darling Cecilia—"

"You've broken my heart!" Merope wailed, tears falling as Morfin's taunts and jeers rang in her ears louder than ever before. She ran to the cabinet, only one thought running through her head: get to the cabinet, get to the cabinet, the potion's in there… If she could dose him again, he'd be hers again, hers and only hers—

But Riddle crossed the room in two strides, catching her wrists and keeping her from reaching the Amorentia. "Don't you dare," he growled. "I won't let you poison me again." He fisted her hair and twisted her arms behind her until she whimpered in pain, then threw her to the floor.

Merope stumbled, her arms thrown out before her to break her fall as she wailed, "The baby!"

Tom, who was already leaving the room, stilled. "The baby." He said the words slowly, as if tasting them on his tongue.

"Yes, yes! Your baby!" Merope sobbed. "Don't go Tom, please don't go, we've got a baby—"

But he was already advancing on her again. His breath reeked of strong wine as he stepped forward shouted, his eyes flashing, "That baby isn't mine. It's yours and only yours, you witch." With that, he stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him and leaving the sobbing Merope on the ground cradling her stomach.

Merope lay there throughout the night, staring at the door, wishing with all her heart he'd return — but he never did. When the sun began to rise and the sky became tinged by pink and the light of day once again kissed the Earth, she slowly rose and hobbled to the mirror to wash away her tears. As she dried her eyes, though, Morfin materialized in the mirror behind her. "Stupid Squib," he crooned, running phantom fingers through her hair, "You've lost him. And you can't survive without him. What a failure you are, little Merope…"

"Quiet!" she shrieked, the mirror rattling in its frame at her distress. "All I wanted to be loved and I won't listen to you anymore! Begone!"

And to her surprise, he did just that, smirking as he faded into the air. His caustic, casual condemnations ceased and his voice was mercifully silent, but then it was replaced by her own.

"Filthy, lying Squib," she whispered to her reflection. "He didn't love you. He never did. And look what it cost you to discover that. You've lost him— you've lost him— you've lost him— you've lost everything, you filthy, lying squib!"


	10. Lost, but not forever

**House:** Slytherin **  
Category:** Theme **  
Prompt:** Screaming **  
Word Count (excluding A/N):** 673

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Remus dodged a spell, retaliated with one of his own, then glanced over to see how his wife was faring in her duel against three Death Eaters.

His heart skipped a beat.

She stood, her back to him, skillfully keeping three of her assailants at bay, but then a fourth masked figure crept up behind her and, as he watched, send a deep purple curse flying towards her unprotected side.

"Tonks!" he cried. "To—!"

He was too late. At his call, she'd turned toward him, but only in time to see the deadly purple light streaming toward her. Time slowed, and Remus saw how realisation began to dawn in her eyes, how her mouth opened in shock, how she began to cast a Protego a second too late, and how the curse hit her left shoulder and arced through her body.

When she crumpled, screaming, to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut, Remus, ignoring the battle raging around them, raced to his wife.

"Tonks," he breathed, pushing her pink bubble-gum hair out of her face. "Please."

She laughed weakly in his arms, her breathing shallow. "This feels like a goodbye."

"Tonks… I can't do this without you. I can't raise Teddy alone!" he said, pulling her close to him in a desperate attempt to keep her safe.

"Yes, you can." She ran a trembling hand along his jawline, then coughed a deep, hacking cough that left her shaking in his arms. "You must."

Blood. There was blood dripping from her nose. Tonks was on the brink of death. Galvanized by the thought, Remus clenched his wand and cast all the healing spells he knew, even the ones he'd only glimpsed MediWizards use when, as a child, he'd had a particularly difficult full moon.

But she only shrieked at the infusion of his magic, and the drip of blood from her nose became a steady stream.

"No— No— No—" Remus screamed, "I can't lose you, Tonks!"

She blinked up at him, her bubble-gum pink hair slowly fading back to its natural brown. "Watch over Teddy. I love you, Remus. Please—" She took a deep, shuddering breath. "I—"

But the light in her eyes, which had already begun to fade, was finally extinguished; Remus knelt in the middle of a battlefield holding his wife's corpse.

"Noooo!" he screamed, his eyes flashing amber. He'd lost Tonks. The only good thing in his life since James and Lily and Sirius, and now he'd lost her as well…

He rose, Tonk's empty body falling to the ground beside him. He strode through the battlefield, his wand held before him like the staff of Merlin himself, slaughtering each and every Death Eater he came across. It would never replace the gaping hole in his life, but hearing the Death Eaters scream as he cut them down felt _so_ damn good.

He had annihilated nearly twenty Death Eaters before he came to the attention of Voldemort himself.

"Well, what do we have here?" the monster drawled, smirking. "A big bad wolf?"

Remus snarled in reply, then sent a rapid volley of offensive spells at Voldemort. It was this _creature's_ fault that Tonks was dead.

Voldemort's smirk disappeared, and was replaced by a scowl. "I see," Voldemort said, his tone like ice. "You will regret that, wolf."

As the Dark Lord advanced in him, spells flying, Remus prayed Tonks would forgive him. As she lay dying, she'd told him to watch over Teddy, and he'd failed her.

Voldemort landed a _crucio,_ and Remus began to scream as his bones ground together, his spine twisted and his skin bubbled; however, he was at peace. He'd see his love again, and beg for her forgiveness himself.

When a green light flew toward him, Remus stopped screaming. He'd be reunited with Tonks now, and after this, they'd be together forever in death, watching Teddy grow up in a normal family, one where the father _wasn't_ a werewolf.

His death was for the best. He only wished he'd taken another Death Eater with him.


	11. Valentine's Day

**House:** Slytherin **  
Category:** Drabble **  
Prompt:** Gilderoy Lockhart/Severus Snape [Pairing] **  
Word Count (excluding A/N):** 435

 **A/N:** Shout out to _The fanster_ , _Carolare Scarletus_ , and _Andromeda of Orthy_! You guys are awesome! **  
Summary:** It's Valentine's day, and Lockhart knows Snape is in denial.

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Snape grabbed Lockhart's arm and dragged the man into an abandoned classroom. "For the last time!" Snape shouted. "I'm not in love with you!"

Lockhart chuckled. "Then why'd you drag me into an empty classroom? You can't deny it, Severus."

"I— I—" Snape sputtered. "Of course I can deny it!"

"Oh Severus, there's no need to pretend. I know you've had a crush on me for years. A little birdie told me!"

"Who," Snape growled. "I'll murder them in their sleep—"

"So you admit it!" Lockhart interrupted, beaming. "I'm glad. After all, it is 1992."

"I. Am. Not. Homosexual."

"Severus, be a role model for the students. Show them how to escape the closet!"

"I quite like my closet," Snape snapped. "There aren't buffoons like you there!"

But Lockhart ignored him completely. "Speaking of closets, your fashion sense is atrocious. Goth is _so_ last century."

Snape's eye twitched.

"Look at this." From somewhere in his robes, Lockhart produced a magazine and, after flipping it open, pointed from one scantily clad male model to the next. "Pink robes and fluffy cuffs are all the rage right now!"

The tendon in Snape's neck bulged; however, before he had a chance to respond, a dwarf appeared. "I've a delivery for Professor Lockhart," it announced, pulling a scrap of paper from its baby cupid costume. It then recited:

 _To my lovely Lockhart:_

 _Your body's first class,_

 _Your eyes are bright glass._

 _Your hair is spun gold,_

 _I'd swear you're not old!_

' _Cause you've still got that sass,_

 _And that very fine—_

"SILENCIO!" Snape bellowed.

Lockhart shook his head. "Severus, Severus, why do you deny your passion? This is obviously your work."

"It is not!" Snape shouted. "That is not my handwriting. It's probably one of those lovelorn Gryffindor girls— in fact, it belongs to—" He snatched the paper from the dwarf, squinted at it, then froze. "Draco Malfoy?"

. . . . . . . . . .

From beneath the Invisibility Cloak, Harry and Ron watched a murderous gleam come to Snape's eye. The Potions Master stormed out of the room, and after a few moments, Lockhart ran after him, shouting, "Severus! Don't try to escape your feelings!"

Harry and Ron looked at one another, both straining not to laugh until after their professors were out of earshot. But then Harry, in an uncanny imitation of Snape, grimaced and mouthed, "Draco Malfoy?" and the two boys burst out laughing.

When their laughter died down, Harry gasped, "That was brilliant, mate, bloody brilliant."

"And you're a genius!" Ron punched Harry in the arm. "Finding that Forgery charm? Malfoy's not going to know what hit him!"


	12. Peter's Betrayal

**_The House Competition:  
_ House: Slytherin  
** **Category: Short  
** **Prompt:** Breaking somebody's trust [Theme]  
 **Word Count: 1030**

* * *

It was inevitable that he'd break someone's trust. After all, his animagus was a rat, and rats were filthy, foul creatures which lurked in the shadows. Lily and James and Sirius really should have known better than to trust him. And yet they did.

It had all begun in his sixth year, when he'd been sick of all the fear and terror and jealous of how James, Sirius, and Remus were adored and he, their little sidekick, was forgotten.

He'd searched out Severus Snape. "Please," he'd said, "Take me to your Master."

Snape whipped out his wand. "I don't know what you're talking about," he'd stated, deadly calm. "Now leave."

"No! You know who I mean!" Peter whispered, looking up at the taller boy with watery eyes. "I've seen your Mark. Please!"

In a flash, Snape had him pinned to the wall, his wand digging into Peter's neck. "How?" he spat. "Were you spying on me?"

"I— I—"

"Answer me!" Snape roared.

"I'm a rat animagus!" Peter cried desperately. "I crept into the Slytherin dorms and saw it!"

Snape's eyes flashed. "You tell _anyone_ that I am Marked, and I will have you _thrown_ into Azkaban for being an unregistered Animagus."

Peter nodded, stammering, "I— I— I understand."

Snape let him fall to the floor. "Follow me," he spat. "I'll take you to our meeting. But you may not meet the Dark Lord until you have earned his trust."

After that day, Peter was a double agent. He relayed information to the Death Eaters, ignoring how his conscience twinged. With each tidbit of information, he was slowly betraying his friends. They trusted him. They confided in him. Yet he was sharing that information with their enemies.

However, he didn't let that bother him for too long. He was a rat; this was what he did. And he wasn't _really_ hurting them. So what if their pranks weren't as successful? So what if some woman Peter had never met died because he'd shared how she was secretly helping the Order? It didn't matter that much in the long run.

Peter told himself this through the years, from after he'd graduated from Hogwarts to when he was working for the Order full-time. But then, one day, everything changed. Dumbledore shared Harry's role in the prophecy with him, Sirius, Lily and James. The Headmaster arrived unannounced one night as the four were having a small get-together to say, "Your son will defeat the Dark Lord."

"What?" Lily cried, holding Harry tighter to her. "He's a newborn! How?"

"That is not for us to know." Dumbledore gazed over his half-moon spectacles at her, then his gaze swung to encompass James, Sirius, and Peter as well. "But a prophecy said he would, so we must keep him safe."

Lily nodded. "But how?" she asked, her voice trembling. "So many safe houses have been compromised already."

"The Fidelius Charm," Dumbledore answered. "It's old and powerful magic; it shall keep you, your family, and your location secret. You only need someone you can trust to never give away that secret — a Secret Keeper."

"So I need to find a Secret Keeper," James stated. "Someone I trust with my family's life."

"Yes. Here are the instructions. Lily can cast it. I will leave you to it." With that, Dumbledore swept out of the Potter's cottage.

After Dumbledore had left, James turned to Sirius. "Sirius, can you?"

Sirius ran a hand through his hair. "I'd love to, mate, but—"

"But what?" James interrupted.

"But I think Peter would be better."

 _What?_ Peter thought. _Him, better than Sirius? They trusted him that much?_

"Everyone knows it would be me," Sirius continued. "They'd hunt me down— but who would think you chose him? I could be the decoy."

To Peter's surprise, James nodded. "You're right, Sirius. Peter, would you be our Secret Keeper?"

Peter nodded, his mouth dry. He would do this. He could do this. They trusted _him_ to keep them safe from the Dark Lord, and keep them safe he would.

Yet only months later he realised that he couldn't. Not anymore. He was too weak to keep their trust. He was too weak to keep them safe. Once, he'd loved the Potters. Once, he'd have done anything for them. Once, long ago, he'd been a true Gryffindor; however, that had been before he'd joined the Dark Lord. Now, a full-fledged Death Eater, he sat in his friends' home, munching on their biscuits, sipping their tea, and planning to betray them.

He glanced about the room, taking in James's exuberant grin, Sirius's silly smirk, Remus's exasperated eyeroll, and Lily's doting smile. Then, Peter's gaze swung to Harry.

From his crib, Harry began to wail, and Peter looked down at the crying infant in disgust. Harry. If it weren't for Harry, the Dark Lord wouldn't have taken a special interest in the Potters. If it weren't for Harry, the Dark Lord wouldn't have insisted Peter give him the Potter's location. If it weren't for Harry, Peter wouldn't have to choose between his friends and his life.

He'd miss Sirius, Remus, and James the most. They were the first of Hogwarts to accept him; they were like his brothers. But he was still going to betray them. As much as he loved them, he loved _living_ more.

* * *

"You liar!" Sirius shouted. "You filthy traitor! You— you little _rat_!"

Pettigrew chuckled nervously, stealthily drawing his wand as he said, "Don't try to pin it on me, Sirius!"

Sirius advanced on him, murderous rage in his eyes, and Peter knew it was time to go. "You were the Secret Keeper— you were the one who betrayed Lily and James!" he shrieked. With that ringing accusation, Peter cast a quick _diffindo_ on his finger, a _bombarda maxima_ on the street, and then transformed into a rat and crept into the sewer.

James may truly be dead, but Sirius was as good as dead to him now. He'd betrayed James's trust and now Sirius's — of the Marauders, only Lupin remained, and Lupin had never trusted him anyways.

He really was alone now.


	13. An Unwanted Houseguest

**House: Slytherin  
Category: Drabble  
Prompt: "Can we have pancakes for breakfast?" [Speech]**

 **Word count: 854**

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Sirius yawned. "I'm knackered," he groaned. "Can I sleep over, James? Beating you and Lily at Exploding Snap really tired me out."

James raised an eyebrow. "No, and Lily and I were the ones who won Exploding Snap."

But Sirius ignored his friend, instead magicking the living room couch into a plush bed. "Great, I'm glad it's decided. I think I'll sleep here."

James seemed about to protest, but just then Lily walked into the room and laid a hand on his arm. "Hush, James. I've just put Harry to bed."

James scowled but stayed silent. When Lily had left the room, Sirius laughed and elbowed his friends in the ribs. "Yeah, James," he snarked. "You're whipped, mate." James ignored the jab, instead choosing to follow his wife from the room. Smirking to himself now, Sirius conjured a few pillows and a quilt. Then he laid in bed and tried to sleep.

Yet he must have been on an adrenalin rush from the game, for no matter how hard he tried, his mind kept racing. How could he beat Lily and James at Exploding Snap? Those two were so good they must have been reading each other's minds (it was probably a side-effect of being married), but he and Peter could still try.

After what felt like hours of just lying there, his mind fixated in winning a game of Exploding Snap, Sirius gave up and shouted, "Lily! Come tuck me in?"

An answering shout came from the master bedroom. "No! You're too old for that!"

Sirius pouted. "But Harry gets tucked in all the time!"

"Go to sleep, Sirius!"

Sirius turned over, disgruntled. He'd show those Potters when he crushed them in Exploding Snap … him and Pete would show them…

That night, he dreamt of Exploding Snap. He and Peter were playing James and Lily, and then suddenly the game shifted to Exploding Snape, and then some reason he and Peter were suddenly married and winning while James and Lily had Snivellus's guts on their hands… and then Sirius awoke.

Shaking off his crazy dream like a dog shakes off water, Sirius yawned and stretched. He heard his shoulder pop, he heard then the reedy wail of a one-year old. "I'm coming, I'm coming!" he called, making his way to Harry's room. When he threw open the door, the toddler was in his crib, crying and pounding on the bars with his tiny fists.

Sirius hurried over. "Did you miss your Uncle Padfoot?" he asked the one-year-old.

Harry's green eyes lit up. "Uncle Pa'foo! Uncle Pa'foo!" he cried, hopping up and down excitedly.

"Aw, so you did miss me, Pup." Sirius smiled, then easily lifted Harry out of the crib. Holding the boy close, he asked, "Whatcha say we go get us some breakfast?"

Harry smiled widely, though Sirius wasn't sure if it was from the thought of breakfast or just because he got to escape his crib. All the same, he took the toddler to the kitchen, placed him on the counter, and then took out a glass bowl. "Watch this," he told Harry, "Your Uncle Padfoot's gonna make an omelette."

Harry grinned and clapped his hands and, egged on by his nephew's antics, Sirius cracked the first egg with too much force. Yolk spilled all over the counter; at the sight, Sirius winced. Lily wouldn't like that. Well, he'd just have to make her an omelette too. He cracked seven more eggs, mixed them in his bowl… then the bowl slipped from his grasp and shattered.

Sirius groaned. "Really?" But undeterred, he got out another bowl and another dozen eggs. This time, he was more successful in getting the eggs to the pan; however, the stupid eggs then stuck and wouldn't flip. And when Sirius was finally able to flip them, their insides were still runny. Sirius frowned.

"Me tant's juice!" Harry exclaimed, grabbing his little juice cup and throwing it at Sirius. "Gimme juice!"

Sirius rolled his eyes. "Oi! I'm in a crisis here!" he told Harry. He shoved the runny eggs back onto Lily's cast-iron skillet, then went to refill Harry's juice. But when he returned to the stove, there was smoke rising from the pan. "Shit!" Sirius shouted, throwing Harry's juice aside and making a mad lunge for the stove. Ignoring Harry's angry protests for more juice, Sirius tried desperately chisel the charred eggs from the pan. "No! Shit! Crap! By Merlin's granny panties! Shit, shit, shit!"

He'd just succeeded in taking the burnt eggs off the pan when a very sleepy Lily walked into the kitchen, her bathrobe pulled tight around her. "Morning…" she yawned. Then she blinked. "What're you doing? And stop cursing in front of Harry."

Sirius grimaced. "Sorry Lils, but the situation called for it." He showed her the burnt omelette, then watched her nose wrinkle as she looked from that to the dirty cast-iron skillet to the glass on the floor to the egg-covered cabinets. She began to speak — no doubt to reprimand him— but Sirius gave her his most charming grin and interrupted, "Can we have pancakes for breakfast?"


	14. Yuletide Cheer

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Short **  
Prompt:** "It's too early to start talking about Christmas," [Speech]

 **Word Count (excluding A/N):** 1087

 **A/N:** All my love to my Rabbit and my Queen, aka The fanster and Andromeda of Orthys. They were invaluable in writing this fic. And thank you to my wonderful beta-readers, DarowynK, the Lorax (Carolare Scarletus), and Mags. You guys are the best!

o0O0o

Hermione sighed as she shuffled through the pile of catalogs and magazines on her lap. "Draco, it's too early to start talking about Christmas. It's still October!"

Draco chuckled, sitting down on the bed beside her. "Love, it's called Yule," he explained with mock-patience. "And it's your first time throwing the Malfoy Yuletide Ccelebration. You should have started planning in _April._ "

"Lyra was _born_ in April," Hermione replied, rolling her eyes at her husband. "Honestly. I couldn't have started then."

Draco nodded, a mischievous gleam in his eye. "Yes, being as large as the Giant Squid would make it hard to plan. You shouldn't have gotten pregnant."

"You prat!" Hermione cried, swatting him with a magazine whose cover was emblazoned with the image of a monstrous, over decorated Christmas tree. "You were the one who got me pregnant in the first place!"

As he batted away her attacks, Draco smirked, then drawled, "It takes two to tango, love."

Hermione huffed, then made a show of raising her wand; however, just as she began the spell which would have strung tinsel all over Draco, a wail echoed throughout the Manor.

Hermione scowled, then cast a quick _Tempus_. "You're lucky it's time for Lyra's feeding," she said. "Otherwise, you'd be just another tacky Christmas tree."

Draco laughed, getting to his feet. "I'll get you more books, love. Malfoys don't have 'tacky' decor. Mother always had certain spells for Yule… you'll need cookbooks, too, because we don't have House Elves…"

"Are you really going to complain about House Elves _again_?" Hermione sighed. "We've been over this, Draco. House Elves don't know any better— they've always been enslaved by wizards, working as drudges, and you should be ashamed to—"

"There's no need!" Draco interrupted hastily. He already knew her speech backwards and forwards. "I just wanted to say that SPEW had unintended consequences, that was all. Now, I'll go grab the books so you can keep planning the party." With that, he left.

Hermione frowned at his retreating form. Then she shouted after him, "Why don't _you_ just plan this? You know more about this party than I do!"

"Nonsense," Draco called back. "It's a man's job to invite people and the woman's job to provide for them."

Hermione shook her head as Draco disappeared into the library, a fond smile gracing her lips. As a child, he'd been a prejudiced arse who'd meant every word he said; now, however, Hermione knew he was only jesting.

Still, that last comment was uncalled for. As Hermione nursed their daughter, she plotted how to exact her revenge. After all, _someone_ had to show that arrogant prat up.

. . . . . . . . . . .

This was it. Today was the day.

The Yuletide celebration was to begin any second, and _nothing was ready_.

Draco threw open the door to the dressing-room. "Hermione!" he shouted, "The guests are arriving and there's no hor d'oeuvres! Where are canapes? The baked brie? The bruschetta? All we have for them to eat is plum pudding!"

Hermione stopped fussing with her robes to turn and face her husband. "Draco," she sighed, "It's okay. I've got this all under control."

"No, you don't!" Draco cried. "What will Blaise say? Or Pansy? You Gryffindors might think some wassail and a plum pudding makes it Yuletide, but Slytherins don't!"

Hermione regarded him with a level gaze. "It'll be okay," she reassured him. "I've thrown parties before. Leave it to me, Draco."

Though Draco would have much rather insisted that he _not_ leave it to her, for she'd royally mucked up the party already, Blaise's patronus flew into the room. "You going to open the door, mate?" it enquired sarcastically.

Draco ran a hand through his hair. "I'm coming," he answered.

He spent the first hour greeting guests and their accepting gifts; Ginny Weasley gave him a scarlet and emerald knit sweater for Lyra, and Draco had to suppress a grimace at the sight of it. As if he'd allow his daughter to wear _that_ monstrosity.

Nevertheless, he took the gift, promising to send her mother a picture of Lyra wearing it, then welcomed her to the Yule party. At least he didn't feel bad about the meager selection of appetizers when she entered. Each time he greeted a Slytherin, he cringed inwardly.

When he'd finished greeting his guests, he joined the party in the main ballroom, already steeling himself for the mass of politely bored people in their best robes; however, the sight that met his eyes was far from what he'd expected.

A very, very flushed Pansy was flirting with Potter, almost sitting in the man's lap, and Potter didn't seem to be protesting too much. Meanwhile, Weasley's face was red as his hair as he told Theo about broomstick regulation, because "too many brooms are straight nowadays, it's impossible to find bent ones," and Theo was nodding, hanging onto Weasley's ever word. Even Blaise was chatting with the rather tipsy Ginerva Weasley.

Wonders never ceased. Astonished by the sight of so many of his classmates making fools of themselves, he made his way to his wife, who was busily pouring drinks. "I'm impressed," he murmured.

Hermione smiled up at him. "I'm glad. You don't mind?" she asked, gesturing at the rack of already emptied bottles beside her.

Draco shook his head. "Not at all, dearest. In fact, I think I'll have some myself." She handed him a bottle and he took a sip, expecting to taste lower-grade spiced wine, spiked punch, or eggnog; however, the smooth fruity taste on his tongue felt oddly familiar—

He almost choked on his drink when he realised what it was. "Hermione!" he shouted. "Did you clear out my entire wine cellar? There were _priceless_ pinot noirs down there!"

Hermione smirked. "No one drinks it anyways. Besides, alcohol makes the world go round." She gestured towards Pansy and Potter who were now snogging on the couch.

Draco had to laugh. "You certainly have a way of planning things," he admitted. "Though I certainly was not expecting _this_ when I asked you to plan the party."

Hermione's smirk was not fading in the slightest. "I did warn you, Draco," she drawled. "If you'd wanted it your way, you should have to do it yourself."

Draco shook his head. "Never. I've got _loads_ of blackmail material now." He grinned. "I hope you're doing this next year."

"As long as I don't have to start planning for it in April, I will," Hermione laughed, giving him a peck on the cheek. "Happy Yule, Draco."


	15. Tomione (sort of)

**A/N. I've reposted this chapter into my Tomione Collection and expanded it. In the Tomione collection, it is Chapter Two. Here's the first sentence (because ffn doesn't want an entire chapter devoted to just an Author's Note xD).**

After years of searching, he'd finally found it. The Chamber of Secrets. Two doors loomed before him, engraved with silver snakes which seemed to wink at him as their emerald eyes glinted in the feeble light of his _lumos._


	16. When You Wish Upon A Star

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Drabble

 **Prompt:** James and Lily's final night [Prompt]

 **Word Count (excluding A/N):** 425

 **A/N:** This story _begged_ to be written when I was helping The fanster brainstorm. So here it is :)

o0O0o

James silently entered the room. His wife stood there in the starlight, her long hair blood red in the darkness. As he watched, she shivered and pulled her quilt tighter around her, then smiled tenderly down at their son. "Lily?" he murmured, laying an arm around her shoulders. "What are you doing here?"

Lily leant into his touch, wrapping an arm around his midriff before answering, "I wanted to see Harry."

James chuckled. "I know. It's hard to believe that little tyke is going to defeat Voldemort."

"But he will," Lily whispered, pushing back a lock of unruly black hair to reveal a smooth, unblemished forehead. The stars twinkled down upon the small family as they stood there in the dark night.

James nodded slowly, his eyes on the child sleeping so peacefully in the crib. "He must."

"It is his destiny," agreed Lily with a slight frown. She rested her head on his shoulder, her deep red hair falling over him. "I just worry for him. I— I want to make sure he's happy." She fell silent, simply standing there in the darkness with her husband and her child, all of them so small and fragile against the encroaching night. Finally, she whispered, "Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight…"

Her voice trailed off, and after an immeasurable silence, James pressed her hand and murmured, "What was that, Lily?"

"An old muggle saying," she replied quietly. "If you wish upon the first star you see, your wish will come true."

"Then let's do it," James replied, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "Harry needs love."

Lily sighed. "I know— it's just— I wished for years that Petunia would love me, and it never happened."

"It can't hurt to try." Careful not to wake Harry, James guided his wife to the window and drew open the curtains. "Now, how did it go again? Star light, star bright…"

"...first star I see tonight," Lily whispered. "I wish I may, I wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight."

"Let Harry be loved," James murmured. "Let him grow up happy."

The two stood there in the window, staring silently into the starry night sky.

. . . . . . . . . .

The stars shone above them, careless and cold and cruel. They would watch the children trick-or-treat the next night. They would watch Voldemort enter the Potter home to murder its inhabitants. And they would watch Albus Dumbledore take little Harry, the only survivor, and leave him on his aunt's doorstep.

They would watch, and yet they would do nothing.


	17. Peter the Pet

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Theme

 **Prompt:** Hogsmeade [setting]

 **Word Count (excluding A/N):** 727

 **A/N:** Thank you to Carol, Ra, and Emma for beta-ing! :)

oO0Oo

The moon was rising, painting the world with its faint off-white glow as the setting sun slowly disappeared over the horizon. The shadows lengthened, and the trees rustled in the cold, biting wind; the world was slowly falling into dusk's tender embrace as Peter scurried through the tall, yellow grasses to the Whomping Willow.

He easily pressed the knot on the trunk, then slipped into the secret passage, where his four little feet made soft _pit pats_ against the dark, damp earth. Before long, he was surfacing in the Shrieking Shack. Ignoring the ravaged walls, Peter slid through a crack in the floorboards, and then he was in Hogsmeade. His nose twitched at the sweet smell of fresh air after nearly an hour spent underground.

It smelled of freedom. After twelve long years spent as the Weasley's pet rat, he'd finally made up his mind. The Dark Lord was dead, vanquished by Harry, and Peter was wasting his time pretending to be something he wasn't. He wasn't a rat. He was a man.

It was time to live his life.

For the first time in decades, Peter concentrated on his human form. He'd always hated its weak chin, its watery eyes, and its short stature; however, he wasn't meant to live his life a pet to a bunch of blood traitors. Screwing his eyes shut, he pictured every detail of his human body, and then he transformed.

Peter shot upwards, suddenly on two feet, not four, and staggering to regain his balance. When he did, he stretched his arms high above his head, marvelling at the dexterity of his fingers and how tall he suddenly was; why, he towered over his other form. Peter flexed his fingers, then took a deep breath.

He had been reborn. He was a man now, not a pet rat, and he was going to make a new life for himself, far from his troubled past.

He turned and began to stride purposely towards Hog's Head, knowing Aberforth would be hard-pressed to recognise him. The Marauders had rarely visited his bar, and his long captivity spent eating kibble had certainly fattened him up. The Prophet's picture of him, run the day of his 'murder', was hopelessly out of date. Confident he wouldn't be recognised, Peter stepped forward for a bracing drink.

His hand was on the handle of the door when the back of his neck prickled. Acting on that instinct which had saved his life countless times during the war, Peter immediately transformed into his rat Animagus. He was being watched. He turned slowly, certain to stay as low to the ground as he could, and he saw in the shadows a bony black dog whose eyes glinted disconcertingly in the growing darkness.

It was Sirius. It was the Grim. Without a doubt, the two were one and the same in Peter's mind — both promised a swift and merciless death.

Heart racing, Peter slunk as discreetly as he could towards the Shrieking Shack. He had to escape before Sirius noticed him.

And it seemed luck was on his side: Peter escaped unscathed, for which he was extremely grateful. He'd seen the saliva pooling on the ground, the yellowed teeth pulled back in a wordless snarl, and the feral gleam in Sirius eye. His prior friend was fantasizing about killing him. Murdering him, in fact. And Peter was certain Sirius would enjoy every second of it.

He shuddered as he slipped back underground. The dank, heavy air seemed to suffocate him as he crept back into Hogwarts; he'd found the light after years spent in darkness, and now he had to relinquish it. Although being the Weasley's pet rat was not a terrible fate, Peter had come to hope for more — and now those dreams were cruelly dashed. With Sirius lurking, just waiting to murder him, Hogwarts was undoubtedly the safest place to be. Hogwarts, surrounded by its Dementors, Aurors, and Order members.

He'd survive there. But that's all he did these days. He only survived. He didn't _live_.

Peter trudged back to Hogwarts, his little footsteps echoing in the empty passageway, his freedom vanishing with every step. His rat form, which had once felt like an escape from the Order, from Azkaban, and most importantly, from his past, was now a prison. One from which he'd never escape it.


	18. Cinderella

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Short

 **Prompt:** Family Tradition

 **Word Count (excluding A/N):** 1495

 **A/N:** Thank you Carol for helping me come up with this marvellous idea! And for making me choose Dramione. And for helping with the ending. Goodness, I should just dedicate this entire piece to you XD

o0O0o

"Love, only Pansy would wear something as tacky as _this_." Draco plucked a flouncy pink blob off of their bed and eyed it with disgust. "And our daughter is supposed to parade through the neighborhood in it?'

From the bathroom, Hermione sighed. "We've been over this before Draco. Trick-or-treating is part of living in a muggle neighborhood. And it makes Lyra happy."

Draco frowned, now glaring at the giant white onesie hanging on their door. "I still don't see how me dressing up like a giant mouse has anything to do with Lyra's happiness."

"Oh, you'll make a cute ferret," Hermione answered, walking over and pecking him on the cheek. "And it's a family tradition. You have to take our daughter trick-or-treating while I stay home and hand out toothbrushes."

Draco chuckled. "Muggles really do this?"

"Well, my parents did," Hermione replied. "And I want to remember them."

 _Especially since they don't remember me._ Draco knew what Hermione left unsaid, so he put a comforting arm around her. "Of course, love," he murmured. "I'll get changed right away."

. . . . . . . . . .

When Draco emerged from their bedroom, clad in a giant ferret costume, he regretted ever agreeing to take Lyra trick-or-treating. He looked _ridiculous._

"No pictures," he growled at Hermione. "If Scarhead or Weasel ever saw me in this, I'd never live it down."

Hermione only looked him up and down, an approving gleam in her eye, before deadpanning, "You make quite a nice ferret, Draco."

Draco scowled; however, before he could repeat that _there would be no pictures on pain of death,_ Lyra bust into the room.

"Mom!" she shouted, waving her battered tennis shoes around, her curly brown hair a snarled mess, tears welling in her silvery blue eyes. "Mom! I need glass slippers to be Cinderella!"

Hermione tsked. "Glass slippers would break, dear."

"But you could just go ' _Shit! Reparo!_ ' to them!" Lyra protested, flicking her wrist in a remarkable imitation of a wand movement.

Draco only kept himself from laughing with extreme force of will; after glancing at the flabbergasted Hermione, he said as calmly as he could manage, "She gets it from you, love."

Hermione sighed. "I know, but it's been three years—" she broke off abruptly when she noticed Lyra watching the conversation with wide eyes. "Draco, are you ready to take her trick-or-treating?"

"Of course. Are you ready, Lyra?"

Lyra frowned. "I want glass slippers!" she cried petulantly.

Draco winked at her. "I'll see what I can do. Now let's go!"

Lyra ran from the room, her ugly pink dress billowing around her, but as Draco made to follow her, Hermione caught his arm. "Remember, no magic," she warned. "We're following my parents' Halloween tradition."

"I know," Draco answered. "But Samhain is a magical time. Who knows what will happen?"

. . . . . . . . . . . .

The sun had long since set, and Draco and Lyra were still trick-or-treating. Lyra had gotten many compliments for her "beautiful princess costume", though Draco suspected those were all lies; meanwhile, he had gotten many strange looks, all of which he blamed on Hermione. His wife had _insisted_ he dress up, saying it was typical of muggle fathers to do so when they took their spawn trick-or-treating, but from the looks of it, most of the fathers were sitting back and having a drink— not escorting their six-year old daughters around in a giant ferret costume.

Stupid family tradition. He was certain that even if they hadn't lived in a muggle neighborhood Hermione would have insisted on trick-or-treating. Apparently she had fond memories of it because her parents had let her eat as much candy as she'd wanted that night, and now that her parents were in Australia, this was her way of remembering them. Well, while he understood her reasoning, goddamnit he was magical and so was she! It was time to make some new family traditions. Starting right away.

He knelt down to Lyra's eye level. Her candy bag was already half-full, and she was beginning to droop. "What do you want for Samhain, Lyra?"

"I want to be Cinderella," she answered sleepily, rubbing her eyes. "I want a carriage. And a pretty dress. And glass slippers. And a prince."

Draco's mind flew back to the VCRs Hermione had forced him to watch with their daughter. "So you need a fairy godmother, then?" he asked.

She yawned, then nodded.

Careful not to let anyone see, he pulled his wand from his pocket. "You might not get a prince _,"_ he said, "but you _will_ get a pretty dress, glass slippers, and a carriage. Tonight, I'm your fairy godfather."

Chanting _Bippity Boppity Boo_ under his breath, Draco transformed her shapeless pink dress into a shimmering blue ballgown; then, he cast on a nearby pumpkin. It swelled to humongous proportions, its mottled orange skin gaining a polished, satin white sheen, and when its plush interior was ready, Draco stepped forward and held the door open. "After you, my Princess."

Lyra's eyes were wide. She picked up her beautiful ball gown and started forward, but then she stopped. "Dad! You forgot—"

"I'm your fairy godfather," Draco interrupted. "And I don't forget anything. I just saved the best for last."

With a wave of his wand, her old tennis shoes disappeared, and were replaced by shining glass slippers.

Lyra's eyes lit up. "Thank you Daddy!" she squealed, running straight at him with outstretched arms. Draco easily caught her and lifted her high in the air, and as he spun her around, she shouted, "Thank you thank you thank you!"

When his arms were finally beginning to ache from holding her in the air, Draco put her down. "Now, why don't you get in the carriage? The clock is about to strike midnight, and I know a princess who needs to get home."

Lyra nodded eagerly, then all but ran into her pumpkin carriage. "Are you going to turn into a horse, Daddy?" she asked. "You're a mouse right now, just like Jaq Jaq."

"No," Draco answered as he hitched himself to the carriage. "Daddy's feet hurt too much for self-transfiguration."

Lyra didn't answer him, and Draco supposed she'd already drifted off, lulled by the gentle rocking of the carriage. Careful not to wake her, he adjusted the rope, then set off for home. When he finally approached their house, Hermione was already standing in the doorway. "Draco!" she exclaimed in a hushed voice. "Where's Lyra?"

Draco nodded towards the pumpkin carriage he was dragging behind him, and at the sight of it, Hermione smiled. "I see your magic didn't wear off at midnight."

Draco grinned. "It's a new family tradition," he said proudly, picking Lyra up from the carriage and carrying her to her bedroom. "You hand out toothbrushes, and I'll take Lyra trick-or-treating." He pushed aside a lock of curly brown hair to reveal her little face. "She had a great time."

"Before or after you used magic?" Hermione asked, casting a silent _Finite Incantatem_ on the pumpkin and then shutting the door behind them. "Because I told you specifically not to."

Draco tucked Lyra into her bed before replying, "I made her so happy. You should have seen her, Hermione."

Hermione smiled, then tugged him from the room. "You should get out of that costume, Draco. And maybe next year I'll take her. It'd be fun. And then you won't have to be a ferret."

"If you do, then you have to dress up as a cat." Draco lifted an eyebrow.

"Never mind then," Hermione answered with a small snort. "I'm never going to be a cat again."

Draco smirked. "Then I'm always going to take her trick-or-treating. After all, it's a family tradition. And I'm her fairy godfather."

Hermione chuckled. "Oh, I don't know if you're her fairy godfather," she drawled. "I'd call you her fairy god-ferret instead."

"Fairy god-ferret?" Draco cried, his voice almost cracking. "Well, I guess that's better than Royal Toothbrush distributor!"

"Oh, just get in bed," Hermione huffed, glaring at her husband. "You're being utterly ridiculous right now."

"And you're not?" Draco slid into bed, shaking his head in mock-confusion. "Honestly, Hermione. I thought you were the brightest witch of the age."

"And I thought you were an arrogant prat," Hermione answered, rolling over on her pillow to face him. "Seems like neither of us are what we thought."

At that, Draco smiled. "I love you, Hermione," he said, pressing a feather-light kiss to her forehead.

"I love you too, Draco."

Hermione dozed off, still curled at his side, and Draco watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest. She really was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Without her and Lyra, he didn't know what his life would have been. He must have had his own fairy godmother; otherwise, he would never have earned Hermione's love. He cleared his throat, then whispered into the silent night, "I don't know if you're listening, but thank you. Thank you for everything."


	19. Discoveries

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Bonus Round, ch 1

 **Prompt:** Discarded Book [object]

 **Word Count:** 1102

 **A/N:** This is part of a larger story written with four other authors. There are links to the other chapters on my profile. Now, enjoy :)

o0O0o

The sun was rising, the sky just beginning to lighten to the palest pink, the night relinquishing its hold on the world as the new day dawned, and it was an awe-inspiring sight; however, Draco was in no state to appreciate it. All it reminded him of was Potter. Potter, who rose from the dead and freed the Wizarding World from the Dark Lord's shadow. Maybe Potter and Granger and Weasel were happy, but _he,_ Draco Lucius Malfoy, was not.

He stormed out of the Great Hall, internally seething. Although his face was blank as ever, there was a tightness to his eyes. He wore the polite, uninterested same mask day in and day out; after weeks of bearing his classmates' constant, subtle slights, it was hardly a surprise that even when he was livid, his face was composed. He'd had too much practice. His mask slipped, however, and for a split-second as he remembered why he was outside instead of inside the Great Hall. Every morning, he woke early to eat alone; however, this morning, there had already been a group of Hufflepuffs at their table laughing and joking and acting as if the war had never happened. When Draco had entered the Great Hall, though, they immediately quieted and fixed him with suspicious stares.

Draco had slouched over to the Slytherin table and fixed himself breakfast, but their accusatory stares unnerved him. Finally, unable to take it anymore, he had pocketed a piece of toast and stormed away. The stupid Hufflepuffs didn't understand. Neither did the Ravenclaws, and neither did the Gryffindors. Even the Slytherins didn't understand. No one could understand what he'd gone through. He had lived for nearly three years with a monster just a corridor away. He'd watched his father cower, watched his mother writhe and scream, and watched the Manor, his childhood home, be consumed by the growing darkness.

Draco scowled. The war had destroyed him. Maybe Potter and Weasley and Granger had returned as heroes and heroines, but he'd been part of the losing side. He wore the brand of a megalomaniac madman, and many were unable to see past it. Drawing his cloak tighter around him, Draco sat along the shore of the Black Lake. He took a mechanical bite from his toast, his eyes fixed upon the still water. In the light of the rising sun, it gleamed a deep red, almost the color of blood. It was beautiful. Draco leant over and ran a hand through the water; however, his hand remained its pale, sickly white. He hadn't truly touched the blood in the Black Lake. Just as he hadn't truly fought in the war. He'd fought to save his skin, not because he enjoyed cold-blooded murder, although many at Hogwarts certainly believed him capable of it. He contemplated his hand for a few seconds more, noticing it was now tinged faint blue, for the icy water had chilled him to the bone. Then he returned his attention to the Black Lake.

For a split second, he wondered how drowning would feel. How the ice cold water would enter his mouth, slide down his throat, and then fill his lungs. The sudden desperation as he realized he couldn't breathe, the moment of panic and terror– and then nothing. He'd die there in the water, and no one would notice, not until someone found his blue, bloated corpse floating in the lake. If they ever did. Perhaps the Giant Squid would pull him down into the depths, and he would never be seen again. He'd heard rumors of mermen living in the Black Lake as well…

Draco took a deep breath. He couldn't kill himself. He wouldn't kill himself. He hadn't survived the entire war to die by his own hand.

Taking another deep breath of the crisp morning air, he looked away from the water. Autumn had come, and with her she had brought splendid colours: around the lake, the trees blazed bright and vibrant with their yellow and red leaves. It made for a picturesque scene, especially as the sun moved higher in the sky and the Black Lake reverted to its natural pale blue, its smooth surface shiny as a mirror; however, one small ripple marred the perfection.

Draco fished a soggy book from the water. It was so waterlogged that the writing was incomprehensible, but Draco was curious. Why would anyone have wanted to discard this book? "Well, what are you?" he said quietly.

To his disappointment, the book didn't respond. He sighed, then cast _tergeo_ on it. His wand siphoned off the water, and when the book seemed dry, Draco sat down at the water's edge, ready to start reading. Yet as he flipped open the cover, he only had time to read the words 'My Journal' before gravel crunched beside him, and driven by some inexplicable need for secrecy, Draco slipped the book into his pocket. When it was hidden, he turned to face the intruder. "Yes?" he drawled.

"Draco." It was Pansy standing there before him, hands on her hips.

"Pansy," Draco replied calmly. "What do you want?"

"You need to eat breakfast!" she answered, frowning at him. "Don't think I can't see you're skipping your meals."

Draco scowled. "And when did my eating habits become your business?" he snapped. "I'm _Draco Malfoy_ , and I will do what I bloody well please. Even if it's _kill_ someone."

Pansy stepped back, eyes wide. "You can't let those Gryffindorks get to you, Draco," she finally said softly, closing the distance to lay a hand on his shoulder. "You're hurting."

"I'm not hurting!" he protested, shrugging off her touch.

"Don't lie to yourself," was Pansy's only response. "It doesn't help."

Something in her tone made Draco pause. He looked at her again, closer this time, noting her tired eyes and pursed lips. Coming back had been hard for her. Perhaps even harder than it had been for him. He may have been Potter's rival, but it had been who Pansy had shrieked that everyone sacrifice Potter to the Dark Lord. Draco sighed. "Pans, the lies are all I have left. The war broke me. It broke _us_." He squeezed her hand. "We're drowning here. It's impossible to stay afloat. There's nothing we can do."

"I know, Draco," Pansy replied. "But we'll survive. We survived the war. All we've got to do is keep swimming."

The two returned to the castle together, and it was only much later that night, when he lay tossing and turning, unable to sleep, that Draco remembered the mysterious book he'd found in the Black Lake.


	20. Ginny's Guilt

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Short

 **Prompt:** Guilt [Emotion]

 **Word Count:** 1211

oO0Oo

She danced away from the jet of purple light, her heart in her throat as she watched Luna — her best friend Luna who she'd grown up with — be caught by one of Bellatrix's spells, a large gash appearing on her arm, blood spurting from the wound. The Dark witch cackled at the sight and began to press her advantage; however, Ginny snarled _Stupefy!_ , missing Bellatrix by inches and making the witch turn to face her.

Ginny held Bellatrix's gaze, fear and adrenalin coursing through her, and the ever-present whispers of Tom suddenly growing louder and louder, just as it had in the Department of Mysteries. The whispers promised to teach her magic beyond compare and the secret to immortality; however, Ginny knew all they spoke of was Dark, Dark magic. She'd fallen under their spell before, but she wouldn't do so again. Never again.

She was so focused on ignoring Tom and glaring at Bellatrix that she almost didn't hear Hermione's shriek: " _Ginny!_ "

A jet of poisonous green light was streaking toward her. She twisted desperately away from it, falling to avoid its deadly kiss by inches. Hermione raced to her side, wand drawn, already casting a _Protego_ , but even in her terrified haze Ginny could tell the muggleborn witch was no match for Bellatrix.

Tom's whispers increased tenfold. Adrenaline still racing through her veins after that close brush with death, Ginny surrendered to the darkness within her. She lifted her wand, pointed it at Bellatrix, and, remembering everything Tom had taught her, she whispered in a shaky voice, " _Av-Ava—_ "

But before she could finish those unforgivable words, her mother ran between her and Bellatrix, snarling, "Not my daughter, you bitch. _Stupefy! Stupefy!_ " She dodged Bellatrix's answering spells, then continued, " _Stupefy! Protego! Bombarda maxima! Stupefy!_ "

Ginny watched her mother duel Bellatrix, shaking as she realized what she had been on the verge of doing. Casting _Avada Kedavra._ Killing in cold blood, like any Dark witch. Like Bellatrix herself. She, Ginny Weasley, had almost cast the worst Unforgivable that existed.

She lay there trembling in her mother's shadow, watching the duel between the two witches. Finally, a spell normally to used to chop vegetables in a kitchen hit Bellatrix square on the chest, and the Dark witch fell.

As soon as Bellatrix had fallen, her mother rushed to her "Ginny!" she cried. "Are you okay?"

"I— I don't know," she choked out, her mind spinning. She almost killed Bellatrix, just as Bellatrix killed Sirius… "I— I just don't know."

"Then go inside immediately," her mother ordered. "It's not safe here."

Ginny didn't even protest; she was so stricken that she obeyed without question. Once within the relative safety of the Great Hall, the remainder of the battle passed in a blur as she helped Madam Pomfrey tend the wounded and struggled with her conscience. She almost killed Bellatrix. She almost committed cold-blooded murder. She almost cast _Avada Kedavra_ , the Killing Curse.

It wasn't until Fred's cold, stiff body was carried in that she was jolted from her guilt-ridden thoughts.

"No!" she shouted, racing to his body. "Fred! No!"

As she knelt beside him, holding his cold hand, her mother tried to embrace her, but Ginny pushed her away. She was unworthy. She should have died in his place. Fred was too full of light and life to die, but she— she almost cast _Avada Kedavra_. "Please," she murmured, "you didn't deserve this— you could never have deserved this, Fred—" She sighed, then added so quietly that no one else would hear, "I did."

Ginny remained at her brother's side throughout the remainder of the Battle. It wasn't until Harry entered the hall and placed a supportive hand on the small of her back that she allowed herself to be moved from Fred's side. He led her away from Hogwarts, away from the wreckage of the battle, away from the dead.

When they finally reached the silent forest, she muttered, unable to meet his eyes, "I'm Dark. I almost killed Bellatrix Lestrange."

Harry stopped short. "You're not a Dark witch, Ginny," he said firmly, taking hold of both her shoulders and trying to look into her eyes. "Ginny, you didn't do anything."

"But I was about to," she mumbled, lifting her face to finally meet his gaze. She knew her tears were slowly streaking through the dust and dirt coating her cheeks, but Harry looked worse: his clothes, ripped and ragged, were coated in blood, of which Ginny knew was not all his; and where his shirt flapped open, she could see a circular purple burn over his heart. The war had scarred all of them. Some on the outside, some on the inside. Tom had left his mark.

Reminded of her guilt, Ginny hung her head again. "And isn't it intent that matters?" she asked quietly. "It's not what happens, what's on the surface. It's— it's what's inside. And Tom's still in there." She burst into empty tears, too overwrought to truly cry.

Harry stood before her, suddenly uncertain, his hands stuck awkwardly in his pockets. Finally, he ran a hand through his messy hair and hugged her. "Ginny, it's okay, I promise you, _I promise you_ , that Tom is gone."

"I— I know," she hiccoughed. "But— but I'm afraid I can still feel him and I think these— these terrible thoughts, Harry— what if it was never Tom? What if it was all me? And I wanted to _murder_ Bellatrix. I almost cast," she lowered her voice, "I almost cast an _Avada Kedavra_. And I would have, too, if mum hadn't shown up. Don't you understand?"

Harry pulled her closer, resting her head on his chest. "I do, Ginny," he replied thickly. "Believe me, I do."

"But how?" She reached up to brush back his hair, revealing his scar. "You're Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Savior of the Wizarding World."

Harry chuckled, catching her hand and shaking his head. His hair fell over his scar again, hiding it. "Everyone has a Darker side, Ginny," he replied. "Even me. Those titles mean nothing."

"When?" she challenged.

"Many, many times," he answered. "When I broke into Gringotts, I used the Imperius Curse on a goblin. When Sirius died, I cast a Crucio on Bellatrix. It didn't work, but the intent was there." He sighed. "I've struggled, Ginny. I've made bad decisions."

Ginny gave a small smile at that. "And it's what makes you human." Standing on tiptoe, she pressed a soft kiss to his lips. "Thank you, Harry."

Harry smiled. "No problem, Ginny. Now, you ready to rebuild the Wizarding World? Be leaders of the Light? Keep each other from the Dark?"

Ginny grinned in return. "Together, we can do anything." She squeezed Harry's hand. "I love you, Harry."

"I love you too, Ginny," Harry replied, squeezing her hand back. "There's a new world waiting for us, and together, we _can_ do anything. Now, let's get back before everyone starts worrying."

Ginny chuckled, and hand in hand the two returned to Hogwarts, where a new life awaited each of them.


	21. Hailey's Anxiety

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Drabble

 **Prompt:** Anxiety [Emotion]

 **Word Count:** 539

 **A/N:** for Alexa and Emma because I know you like fem!Harry.

oO0Oo

The flames were coming for her, and Hailey didn't stop to think. Instead of trying to escape the Room of Requirement, she plunged deeper into its depths; when she found herself trapped, encircled by snapping, snarling creatures of fire, she dove into an untouched, looming cabinet. Perhaps there, she would be safe from the inferno blazing around her. It could be magical, and it was certainly better than watching her death, in the form of some fiery monster, come to devour her.

It was only after she'd slammed the the door behind her and trapped herself in the darkness that she realized where she was. She was in the broken Vanishing Cabinet which Malfoy had used to bring Death Eaters into the school last year. Swearing profusely, she stumbled back towards where she remembered the door being, feeling blindly for the handle; however, her hands only scrabbled against smooth cold metal.

Maybe she was turned around. Maybe, somehow, the door was actually behind her. Now slightly panicked, she turned, arms outstretched in the darkness. But after two paces, she collided with a wall of cold, unyielding metal.

She turned again, hoping against hope that somehow she'd missed the handle the first time, but Hailey hasn't even taken a step before her fingers brushed up against the wall.

Panic came bubbling up from within her. She was trapped. She'd never escape...reaching up into the darkness, she felt the cold ceiling against her fingertips, and when she spread her arms, they came into contact with all the walls around her. There was no doubt about it: the Vanishing Cabinet was shrinking with her inside its belly. Hailey curled into a ball on the cold floor, her breath coming ragged gasps, her childhood spent in the cupboard coming back full force. She couldn't— she couldn't— she couldn't—

Disjointed images flashed behind her eyelids. Uncle Vernon shoving her into the cupboard. Aunt Petunia locking the door behind her. Dudley laughing as Hailey sobbed because she was so hungry that her stomach was twisting and knitting within her skinny frame. And above all, the hated cupboard, keeping her in its malignant darkness, coming to symbolize everything she hated about her life. When Hagrid had come, she had escaped; now, however, she was trapped again.

Hailey's eyes shot open. She began to beat wildly at the walls like a madwoman. She had to escape. Sbe couldn't stay any longer in the small, shrinking space, in the dank darkness… this was a fate than death at Voldemort's hand. She shrieked, clawing at the walls—

And then, the door to the Vanishing Cabinet opened.

Hailey fell forward, caught entirely by surprise, the light blinding her after so long spent in the darkness. She expected to land face-first against the stone floor; however, strong male arms caught her.

Eyes still struggling to adjust to the sudden light, Hailey blinked up at her savior. When her vision finally cleared, her blood ran cold.

It was Tom Riddle standing before her, almost indistinguishable from the shade she'd fought in second year. Tom Riddle, and when she looked around, she recognised the shop as Borgin and Burkes, virtually identical to its future self.

She should have stayed in the cabinet.


	22. As He Lay Dying

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Theme

 **Prompt:** "So, I did a pregnancy charm...:" [Speech]

 **Word Count:** 1685

 **A/N:** Thank you Kristina for beta-ing this monstrosity!

oO0Oo

"I'm sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy," the Healer said as he entered the office, making Rose cringe. Healers never prefaced their sessions with an apology unless they were to deliver bad news.

"There's nothing to be sorry for," Scorpius replied from beside her. "Now, what were the test results?"

The Healer sat down behind his desk and shuffled his papers, not meeting their eyes as he answered, "Not good, I'm afraid."

"How— how bad?" Rose's voice shook.

Finally meeting their eyes, the Healer answered bluntly, "It's a rare strain of dragon pox. There's no cure— at least not any we know of. Mr Malfoy, you're dying."

Scorpius paused. Finally, he said, "Everyone's dying, doctor. I'm just doing so quicker than others." Although he chuckled at his own joke, Rose could see the tenseness in his form, hear the falseness of his laugh, and spot the fear underneath his façade.

"How soon?" she said sharper than she'd intended, but by Merlin this bloody Healer liked to drag things out.

"He's got a couple more years, though it's hard to tell with this disease." The Healer shuddered. "You've contracted a nasty one all right. Mind telling me how you got it? It's so rare nowadays…"

"Not at all," Scorpius answered warmly. "I was working at a dragon reserve with Rose's uncle — collecting Potions ingredients, you see — and I must have caught it there."

"Yes, and Charlie's never going to hear the end of it from me."

"Oh, Rose," Scorpius laughed, the crow's feet in the corner of his eyes crinkling as he did so. "Don't blame it all on him."

"I don't plan on it." A hard look was in her eyes. "There's plenty of blame to go around."

The Healer glanced between them. "Would you like me to leave?"

"No, no, we were just going," Scorpius reassured the man. He slowly got to feet as Rose gathered their belongings. "Are there any papers I need? Information sheets, maybe?"

"Take this folder." The Healer handed a thick file to Rose, who stuffed it into her handbag. "Would you like me to see you out?"

Rose smiled at the man. "No, there's no need. Thank you for offering, though." With that she and Scorpius left St Mungo's.

. . . . . . . . . .

"I don't want to tell your parents."

Scorpius ran a hand through his hair. "Rose, we have to. They're my _parents_."

"I still don't want them to know."

"Rose, I know you guys have never agreed in the past, but can we put that aside for once?" He threw himself down on the couch and loosed his tie. "My parents aren't blood purists. They accept Muggleborns. They— they just didn't want their only son to marry a half-blood."

Rose huffed. "So blood still does matter. I was Head Girl! Doesn't that count for _anything_?"

"Not with their type of people," Scorpius answered. "Only wealth and lineage impress them. Now, sit down." He patted the sofa.

As she sat down, Rose sniffed, "I have impeccable lineage. I'm the daughter of two members of the Golden Trio."

"Yeah, well, to them being related to the Golden Trio is a bad thing," Scorpius laughed, wrapping an arm around her waist. "But I married you anyways!"

"Scorpius," she pressed a kiss to his forehead, "they disowned you for marrying me."

"And all it's proven is that you're worth more than all the money in the world. I mean, I gave up the Malfoy fortune for you!" he said with a roguish grin.

"I just wish you didn't have to choose," she sighed.

"But I did, and I'll say I chose well," he mumbled into her hair. "You kiss better than a thousand galleons— wanna remind me?"

She snuggled even closer to him, laying her head on his chest. "It won't tire you out?"

He chuckled, and Rose could feel his chest vibrating beneath her. "Never."

"Then I'd love to."

. . . . . . . . . .

As Scorpius walked out of the bathroom, only a towel wrapped around his waist, Rose spared a moment to admire his well-defined muscles. Even though it'd been months since they'd visited St Mungo's and he'd been diagnosed with Dragon Pox, he was still quite fit.

Too fit for her own good, apparently. Suddenly remembering why she was waiting outside the bathroom door in the first place, she blurted out, "So, I did a pregnancy charm… and I'm pregnant!"

. . . . . . . . . .

As they lay in bed that night, Rose murmured, "I don't want to tell anyone else I'm pregnant." Then, before Scorpius could contradict her, "I— I just can't. Not yet. We don't know what's going to happen. If the baby'll live. If it'll be healthy. If there'll even _be_ a baby. What if I have a miscarriage? They're common enough for the first child—"

Scorpius cut her off with a soft kiss to the palm of her hand. "It's okay, Rose. If that's what you want to do, then that's what we'll do."

"Thank you, Scorpius."

. . . . . . . . . .

Rose was in the living room, curled up with a good book, when the fire blazed green and Scorpius appeared before her, swayed from side to side, then collapsed with a _thump_.

"Scorpius!" she cried, throwing her book aside and rushing to his side. His forehead was cold and clammy, his skin almost grey with exhaustion, and his clothes were drenched in sweat. "No. Oh, no." Getting to her feet, she grabbed the small pot of Floo powder sitting on the mantel and tossed a handful into the fire. "St. Mungo's!"

. . . . . . . . . . .

"Yes, love?" Rose smiled down at her husband, unshed tears shining in her eyes. This was the first time he'd spoken since she'd Flooed them both to St Mungo's. Though she'd spent days at his side, waiting for him to regain consciousness, to hear him speak again… it made all the hassle worth it. "What is it?" She gently squeezed his hand for extra emphasis.

"My p-parents—"

"Shh," she hushed him. "Your parents disowned you. And when they found out you were dying, they only sent an owl." She sniffled. "Please don't talk about them now. They don't deserve that. They— they didn't deserve you. They're horrid people."

Scorpius sighed, then said so faintly that even Rose barely heard his murmured, "No." Then he coughed, the spasms racking his body, took a deep breath and whispered, "I love you."

"I love you too," Rose answered, running a hand through his fine platinum-blonde hair. "I've loved you since we met on the Hogwarts Express as first years. I just didn't realise it until much, much later."

He sighed. "Me too." Rose looked down at him: they'd been married six years, and she'd begun to believe that the force of their love would keep them together forever…

The Healer knocked at the door, startling Rose from her reverie. "Missus Malfoy?"

"Yes?"

"Your husband's resting now. Perhaps you'd like to go home and take a hot shower?"

Rose smiled at the Healer, though her eyes were sad. "Home is where the heart is," she answered simply. "I'm not going home until Scorpius comes with me."

"Um—" the Healer began to speak, then thought better of it. "If that's the case, would you like a cup of coffee in our hospitality lounge?"

"That'd be very nice." Rose began to gather her things, then turned and said, "If anything changes in his condition, I want you to inform me _immediately_."

"Yes, Mrs. Malfoy."

The Healer left, and Rose paused to press one more kiss to Scorpius's forehead, her eyes beginning to tear up as she did so. Then she turned to leave, but then door swung open. Two blurry figures in deep green robes stood in the hallway, one with platinum-blonde hair the same shade as Scorpius's.

Rose blinked back her tears and as her vision cleared, she saw Draco and Astoria Malfoy. Her distress must showed, for Astoria's face fell and she cried, "Are we too late?" She raced to the bed, then stopped short. "Oh, Merlin," she gasped, falling to her knees. Draco Malfoy stood behind his wife, resting a hand on her shoulder, his face inscrutable as she wept. Rose watched them, hatred swelling within her. These two had stood by and let her husband die. They hadn't visited in years and now, as he lay on his deathbed, they wanted to say goodbye?

Draco Malfoy must have noticed her reddening face, for he scowled at her and spat, "Get out, Weasley. Let me and my wife mourn."

Rose snorted. "No. I'm a Malfoy now too, don't you remember, Draco?"

His nostrils flared. "Leave."

"No! I'm not leaving my husband!" Rose shouted, her hair beginning to crackle and rise around her.

"Control your magic, girl," Draco sneered. "And he is our _son_."

Rose made to reply, but Astoria turned to her husband with soft eyes, laying a hand on his arm and murmuring, "Darling, let Rose stay. After all, she _is_ coming to dinner tonight."

Rose blinked. "I am?"

Draco frowned but did not contradict his wife; at the flick of his wand two chairs trundled to Scorpius's bedside. The sound must have wakened Scorpius, for he lifted his head, slowly opened his eyes, and croaked, "Dad?"

"Son." Draco leaned over Scorpius's pale figure. "I'm here."

Scorpius sighed. "And Mom is here, and Rose…"

"We are," Astoria said softly, taking his hand and squeezing it. "We're here for you, Scorpius."

"Good," Scorpius said weakly. "Take care of Rose and the baby. Please."

"Rose and the _baby_?" Astoria said, sounding shocked. Then she nodded. "We will, Scorpius. I promise."

Rose glanced at Astoria; then, she turned to look at her father-in-law and was surprised to see a tear slowly rolling down his cheek. "We will," he said softly. "I'll miss you, son."

Scorpius smiled. "Don't say goodbye yet. I'll still be there. Through you, through mom, through Rose, and through the baby. Don't say goodbye, Dad."

Draco nodded slowly. "Then I shall see you again. In my grandson."

Scorpius's eyes drifted shut. "I love you, Rose. I love you all." His breathing evened out, then slowly faded. Then he was still.


	23. Narcissa Malfoy & Chandelier by Sia

**Slytherin House**

 **Winter Challenge**

 **[Song Prompt] Chandelier - Sia**

 **A/N: Thank you for beta-ing, Sofia!**

oO0Oo

 _I'm just holding on for tonight..._

Narcissa staggered into the master bedroom, bottles of Lucius's most potent liquors clasped tight to her body. Collapsing onto the bed, she lay there staring up at the ceiling, trying to forget what she had seen — and done — that night.

 _Party girls, don't get hurt,_

Earlier that evening, she had been invited to go Muggle-Hunting. Thorfinn Rowle had leered down at her as he'd asked — no, insisted — that she join them, and she'd found herself in no position to refuse, especially when he had reminded her of just how precarious her position in the Malfoy Manor was, with Lucius disgraced and Draco a failure. So she had gone with him, and tried her best to ignore the atrocities she was committing.

 _Can't feel anything, when will I learn,_

 _I push it down, push it down…_

Shrieks suddenly echoed in her ears. Tossing the bottles aside, Narcissa hurriedly stripped off her black robes. When they lay puddled at her feet, she violently kicked them under the wardrobe and hurled the bone-white Death Eater's mask Thorfinn had given her as far away from her as she could; now that they were out of sight, she only had to wash the blood from her body, and then she could pretend that she hadn't been torturing and killing. She could pretend to forget.

She slipped into the marble bathtub, remembering just how many times she had returned to her rooms in those dark robes. Too many to count.

 _I'm the one "for a good time call",_

 _Phone's blowin' up, they're ringin' my doorbell,_

 _I feel the love, I feel the love..._

For some reason, Antonin and Thorfinn enjoyed asking her to join them in Muggle-Hunting. They likely enjoyed seeing her trying desperately to cover her horror, and so they appeared at all hours, demanding her presence in their next raid. And she always accepted, always went along, for it was a matter of survival. She did what she had to do.

But this time, she found she felt a sense of camaraderie with Antonin and Thorfinn. But that couldn't be. She was nothing like them. Nothing at all.

 _Sun is up, I'm a mess_

 _Gotta get out now, gotta run from this_

 _Here comes the shame, here comes the shame_

She slid shakily from the tub. After pulling her favorite bathrobe around her, she grabbed her wand and conjured a silver goblet. She had to forget. She didn't want to remember the Muggles screaming and writhing high, high in the air as she cast _crucio_ after _crucio_ … she needed something to brace her, something to help her maintain her exhausting facade as the Dark Lord's loyal follower.

Narcissa crossed the room and picked up the first bottle she came across. Then, sitting cross-legged on the dark-green bed, she poured herself a little to drink.

 _One, two, three, one, two, three, drink._

The dark wood furniture around her gave the room an imposing, claustrophobic feel. She was trapped, trapped in Malfoy Manor, trapped in her shame. But she could be free, if only temporarily. She gulped down the liquor, then refilled her cup.

 _One, two, three, one, two, three, drink._

The dark red liquid filled her cup, sparkling dully in the candlelight. It was so pretty, and it burned going down.

 _One, two, three, one, two, three, drink._

She downed cup after cup, willing the alcohol to cloud her mind. She didn't want to remember anymore. She wanted to forget. But she could never forget.

 _Throw 'em back, till I lose count._

It was like she was drinking water now, not wine; she was floating above her body, an impartial observer watching her hand always moving, either lifting the glass to her lips or refilling her cup. And then the bottle was empty.

 _I'm... gonna swing… from the chandelier… from the chandelier._

She couldn't live anymore, she couldn't survive any longer. She looked down at the long, smooth silk sheets beneath her legs, and wondered how it would feel to swing through empty air… but then another bottle caught her eye.

 _I'm… gonna live… like tomorrow doesn't exist… Like it doesn't exist._

She forced herself upright, and although she was completely drunk, she opened the next bottle. Perhaps she would regret this in the morning, but she wasn't thinking about tomorrow. Then, with the bottle in hand, she staggered to the window.

 _I'm… gonna fly… like a bird through the night, feel my tears as they dry._

If only she could fly freely. Malfoy Manor may have been a gilded cage, but it was a cage nonetheless; she was trapped with dangerous, deranged creatures. It was hopeless… or maybe not. She glanced back at the bed, at the silken sheets. One day, she would be free.

 _I'm… gonna swing… from the chandelier, from the chandelier._

But she couldn't, not yet. Not with Draco and Lucius. They would be punished for her weakness. She crumpled to the floor, the liquor sloshing over her bathrobe and dying it a deep dark red. That didn't matter, though. She stared up at the ceiling, the bottle by her side.

 _And I'm holding on for dear life, won't look down, won't open my eyes._

 _Keep my glass full until morning light, 'cause I'm just holding on for tonight._

She sat up, her vision blurred with tears. She didn't know why she was crying — was it the shame or the sorrow? — but she knew she couldn't keep living like she she did. She just couldn't. She held the bottle to her lips, gulping down as much as she could as she sobbed.

It was moments like these when alcohol was a curse, not a blessing. It was providing clarity when all she wanted was a fog in which to lose herself...

 _Help me, I'm holding on for dear life, won't look down, won't open my eyes._

She couldn't stand the person she was becoming. She couldn't bear her own reflection… but she had to stay strong. For Draco. For Lucius.

 _Keep my glass full until morning light, 'cause I'm just holding on for tonight._

She took another swallow. And another.

 _On for tonight._

And another.

 _On for tonight._

And another.

But she couldn't hold on forever. The bottle was empty, and with a shriek she hurled it from her, sending it crashing against the floor where it shattered, littering the floor with glass shards.

Narcissa shakily got to her feet. She staggered to the bed, then grabbing the sheets, then stumbled to the door. She couldn't, not any longer.

 _I'm… gonna swing… from the chandelier…. from the chandelier!_


	24. Bill & Fleur

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** drabble

 **Prompt:** [Speech] "Nothing can be that important."

 **Words:** 419

 **A/N:** My thanks to the amazing Mags and the terrifying Dark Lady Kristina for beta-ing :)

oO0Oo

When he cracked his eyes open, the world was swimming around him. He lay on familiar sheets, staring up at the ceiling, his entire body aching. Beneath his bandages, he could feel gaping wounds. The battle had gone badly for him. When he had seen Fenrir Greyback stalking his little sister, and known there was no spell to stop the partially-transformed werewolf from reaching her, he'd jumped between Greyback and Ginny, screaming for her to run.

And now he was mutilated beyond repair. He already knew that he'd always have the thick, ropy scars which marred his face and body; Greyback had bit him and clawed at him mercilessly. "W-water," he croaked, trying to lift his head but collapsing back onto his pillow when even that slight movement made his every nerve screech in protest. The world around him was blurred to his eyes. "Wa-water."

Within seconds a woman with long, silvery-blonde hair stood before him, a cup in hand. As she tipped the water down his throat, murmuring soft words of encouragement in a heavy French accent, Bill couldn't stop his tears.

Although he would _never_ have let Ginny come to harm, he knew he was damaged now. He had fought, and now thin, silvery scars would mar his body, and the werewolf's curse would lie upon him, too. Fleur would never want him now. She was so beautiful, ethereal, fairy-like — she deserved a husband as perfect as her. Once, he had envisioned their marriage; now, with his scars and his partial werewolf status, he could never have that. Tears trickled down his cheeks and into the cotton bandages covering his chin.

"He eez crying!" he heard the silvery-blonde woman exclaim in a heavy French accent. "Bill, why are you crying?"

It couldn't be Fleur, though. Fleur was gone, or perhaps that was her, wanting to wish him goodbye before she disappeared from his life forever. "Fleur," he rasped. "You can go. You don't have to say goodbye."

"Did he 'it his 'ead?" he heard her say. Someone answered, but he wasn't listening to them — he was far too busy committing this final blurred image of her, along with her beautiful accent, to memory. He wouldn't see her or hear her again for a long time, if he ever did again. But then she said, "Bill, I am not going to leave you."

"But— my scars— I'm ugly, part-werewolf—" he protested weakly.

"Oh Bill," she sighed. "Nothing can be zat important. Not when I love you."


	25. Blaise & Ginny

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Short 500-2000 words

 **Prompt:** [Romantic Pairing] Non-canon pairing of your choice.

 **Word Count:** 1195

 **A/N:** for my Princess Sofia! I know I'm late — I promised this as a Winter Challenge — but hey, better late than never! And thanks for the help :)

oO0Oo

He stood in the shadows, watching. His ridiculous date stood beside him, pouting and plucking at the corsage on her wrist. "Blaise, you promised that we'd dance!"

He scowled. He couldn't remember why he'd chosen this girl, Daphne's younger sister — all he knew was that in a spat of anger after he'd heard that Ginerva Weasley accepted the oaf Longbottom's invitation, going to the Yule Ball with her had seemed like a fantastic idea. "Blaise, come on!" she repeated. Her words sounded far too much like a whine. He loathed helpless, weak women; he wanted someone with fire, someone who drew the attention of the entire room. Someone like Ginerva Weasley.

But little Ginny had accepted Longbottom's invitation, and now he was stuck with this tart. Sighing to himself, Blaise took his date's hand and led her out onto the dance floor. Adopting the manners drilled into him by his third step-father, a pureblood elitist whom Blaise had been glad to see suffer an "unfortunate incident", he said, "May I have this dance, Miss Greengrass?"

She simpered, batting her lashes up at him. "Of course, Blaise dearest," she cooed. At the endearment, his stomach sickened, but he forced a pleasant smile on his face and began the waltz.

He knew he was supposed to be showering attention upon his partner. Waltzes were slow and soft to allow couples to interact privately; however, Blaise couldn't bring himself to care. Throughout the dance, he kept craning his neck to keep a certain redhead in sight. Ginny had drawn his attention from the very start of the ball, when she made her entrance on Longbottom's arm — her beautiful mint green gown complimented her hair perfectly and showed far too much of her smooth, creamy skin to be entirely within dress code… not that he cared, of course. He just didn't like the effort she had gone through for Longbottom.

Or maybe not for Longbottom. As he watched, she and Longbottom stopped dancing and began walking towards where Potter and her brother stood. Did she really still have that puerile crush on Potter? His curiosity piqued, he stopped dancing, too busy watching her try to exchange a few words with Potter, only for the boy to be called away.

"Blaise, dearest?" his date whispered, looking up at him with worry in her eyes. "Are you okay? If you want fresh air, we could go outside…"

"No, I'm fine," he answered. "I just need more punch." With that he strode away, leaving her alone on the dance floor, too focused on finding one Ginerva Weasley to care. If Potter and Longbottom weren't man enough to show her the attention she deserved, then he would do it.

"Hello Ginerva," he said smoothly, taking her elbow and drawing her away from the dance floor. "Would you like to take a walk outdoors?"

She twisted in his grasp,her expression changing from surprise to confusion to disgust. "Get your hands off me," she hissed, clearly unwilling to cause a scene… yet.

"Come on Ginny, don't be like that," he cajoled. "I don't like my date. You don't like yours. And it's a beautiful night, though not as beautiful as you." She flushed at the compliment, and Blaise smirked inwardly. "We should spend some time together."

She scrunched her brow, as if thinking about it, then said, "I guess it's pretty safe out here. But why me?"

"Because you, Ginerva, are fire," he answered honestly, staring at the red and gold tints of her hair which sparkled in the fairy lights, casting an orange-yellow halo about her head. "You are fire, and I'm not afraid of getting burned."

"Well, when you put it like that," she said, blushing and preening a little under his gaze, "I think I'd quite like to sit with you." She plopped down, her beautiful gown ballooning around her, and before Blaise joined her, he took a moment to appreciate the sight she made, sitting there on the low stone bench waiting to talk with him.

They talked for hours, making trivial, light-hearted conversation, learning about one another nonetheless. They weren't interrupted, either, although that was no coincidence — when Ginerva wasn't looking, Blaise cast subtle privacy spells around their tiny alcove. The only one who saw the two of them sitting there was Professor Snape, and to Blaise's surprise, the Professor did not chastise him; rather, he peeled back the spells, blinked, then recast the privacy charms, even adding some powerful ones Blaise had never seen before. Then he continued on his way.

Shortly afterwards, the clock struck midnight. At the chime, Ginny looked up. "Where did all that time go?"

"I don't know," Blaise answered. Putting an arm around her shoulder, he drew her close, inhaling the sweet scent of the gardenias which laced her hair, and directed her gaze to the sky over the Black Lake. "But I had a wonderful time."

A faint blush arose in her cheeks. "I did too," she admitted, leaning onto his chest and looking up at him. Blaise felt his throat constrict, and he leaned closer to her, barely daring to believe the moment was real…

The moment their lips meant, a firework exploded over the Black Lake, perfectly mimicking the fire that ignited in Blaise's heart. He had never felt such strong emotions tugging at his heart and begging to burst free. "Ginny," he breathed. Their kiss under the stars had been perfection. He felt… complete.

"Blaise," she whispered. They sat in silence, staring at one another. Blaise didn't ever want that magical moment to disappear… Ginerva Weasley had just kissed him! In the morning, he might regret his reckless actions, but for the time being, he luxuriated in the knowledge that his affection wasn't entirely unrequited… and then Potter walked by. Immediately Ginny straightened, flushing. "I shouldn't be here— I should go—" she stammered, and then she was gone before he had the chance to say so much as a word.

It took Blaise a few moments to gather himself, to regain his facade of cool indifference. When he did, he got to his feet and slowly made his way back to the Common Room. As he walked, he vaguely thought he heard the click-clack of his date's footsteps running after him, but as if he was underwater, everything was muffled and he felt slightly numb. Ignoring his Housemates' jeers and comments asking him where he'd been, he made his way straight to his room, where he pulled the curtains around his four-poster bed before casting a silencing charm on it. That night, he fell asleep dreaming of what could have been, had Potter not walked by.

The next morning, he cleared all thoughts of Ginevra Weasley from his mind. After all, there was a war brewing, and they were on opposing sides. He could not afford another mistake, another distraction. It could destroy him.

Nevertheless, he knew he would never forget their magical kiss under the stars, the way her hair had sparkled like fire in the faery-lights, and how the fireworks had exploded above them, as brief and beautiful as their relationship.


	26. Afterwards

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Themed

 **Prompt:** [Weather] Cloudy

 **Word Count (excluding A/N):** 2143

 **A/N:** For Jimmy, because sixteen is too young to die, and for everyone he left behind.

oO0Oo

"Fred!"

The anguish on George's face when he finally caught sight of his twin's pale, cold body was heart-wrenching. Lee watched helplessly as George sprinted to where Fred lay, surrounded by the Weasley family. Turning away from the sight of George sobbing over his brother's broken body, Lee swallowed hard, tears trickling silently down his own cheeks. He had been Fred and George's best friend, but he couldn't intrude upon what was clearly a family gathering. Right now, George needed his family's support. Later, he would offer his own.

So he stood apart from the people beside Fred's deathbed. Lee had always known they couldn't all survive. Logically, he had always known that someone would die, but he just hadn't thought that it would leave him feeling this empty, this utterly hollow. Fred had vanished from his life, taking with him something that Lee knew he'd never get back, and that realization hit him hard. He could feel the void sucking away his emotions, and even the few tears which tracked silent paths down his cheeks felt unreal. Yet compared to George's heart-rending sobs, Lee knew he must seem like a statue to the onlookers.

When the crowd dispersed, Lee stepped forward. "It's going to be okay," he said quietly as he placed one arm around George's shoulder.

George turned away. "No, it's not. It will never be okay again," he said quietly, and at those words Lee felt a cold, sinking feeling in his stomach. "Please leave."

But Lee knew that wasn't what George really wanted, just as he knew that if he offered his condolences, George would only fall deeper into his depression. What was necessary was humor. So although it was hard for him, he said, "Well, I hope you can put aside your beautiful bright Weasley jumpers and wear black from now on, Forge." Maybe that would cheer him up.

But he was wrong. George spun at him, his eyes red and puffy as he shouted, "Shut up Lee! Just— shut up!" He took a deep, ragged breath, then said haltingly, "Please, just leave."

Taken aback, Lee did just that: he walked away. When George needed him, though, he'd be waiting. He had stood by his side, and now he was standing by for a call.

But George never called. At first, Lee thought it was just how many happy memories they'd shared that led him to do that. It hurt him more to see George, given how much he and Fred had looked alike, but he also understood that the gaping emptiness he felt was unlike George's grief. But if he was healing, George was too; at least, that's what he had thought. He supposed he would see George at Fred's funeral later on that day and finally speak with him again, for in the past week, George had probably recovered. However, as Lee was searching for a pair of black dress robes, he received an owl from Molly Weasley.

"Come to the Burrow," read the note, hurriedly penned and splattered with desperate blotches of ink. "George needs you."

Lee read the note quickly, fed the rumpled old owl some owl treats and gave him a small bowl of water, then tossed a pinch of Floo powder into the roaring fireplace and shouted, "The Burrow!" After a sickening swirl of emerald flames, he appeared in the familiar kitchen and found Mrs. Weasley waiting for him.

"Take this." she said, thrusting a loaded picnic basket into his hand. "George isn't eating and he's been moping in his room ever since Fred… died." He saw her glance briefly up to the wall; following her gaze, he saw the small shrine for the fallen clock hand reading 'Fred' beside the monstrous clock. The clock hand labelled 'George' pointed toward the the section very simply labelled, _Sad_. The label seemed woefully inadequate for the true agony he knew George had to be living through. When Molly looked back at him, a determined gleam was in her eye. "You're his friend. Help him."

Lee nodded hard, gulping a little but lifting his chin also at the challenge. "I'll try my best, Mrs. Weasley. But…"

"Please, Lee, just help him," she said again, desperation in her voice, and Lee saw just how deeply the wrinkles and bags under her horribly blood-shot eyes went, as if she hadn't been sleeping, and just how tired and frazzled the normally motherly and put-together matriarch of the Weasley family was. "I've already lost one son. I can't lose another."

Swallowing hard, Lee took the hamper from her and put a hand on her arm. "I understand," he said. "And I will." After giving her a bone-crushing hug, he started up the stairs.

When he approached Fred and George's room, the familiar door was smaller than he remembered and far more worn. Never before had he felt unwanted in the Weasley home, but looking at that stained, battered door, Lee knew everything was different now. Before, shrieks and explosions had come from behind that door; now, it was silent. Lee sighed, then raised his hand and gave his signature knock. _Rat ta ta tat titta titta titta tat!_ he finished with a flourish.

But no one came running to the door. In fact, no one came at all.

So Lee was forced to employ more mundane methods to gain access. After an _alohomora_ and various other creative spells failed to let him in, he resorted to picking the lock like a muggle. The door finally flew open with a triumphant _click_ , but the memory brought back a moment when he, Fred, and George had used that Muggle trick to break into an Order meeting, and that brought back a whole host of feelings.

Fred.

But Lee pushed his sorrow away, just as he had been for the past week. He would grieve later, not now. Right now, George needed him.

He was right George needed him. He just hadn't realized how much. Stepping into the room, he saw that the curtains were closed tightly against the light, and George lay on the bed in the dark, staring up at the ceiling.

"George?" Lee said softly, walking up to the pale body on the bed and wondering if he was already too late.

But he was proven wrong when George asked, his voice rusty from disuse, "Why are you here?"

"To cheer you up," Lee answered bluntly, throwing open the curtains to let in the light. It was sunny yet cloudy outside, the bright sunshine masked and muffled by the clouds, but any natural light would do George good. "Come on George, we won the Final Battle. Voldemort is dead. The Death Eaters are gone. We don't have to hide anymore. It's time to _live_."

George regarded him with a haggard gaze. "Live," he said, his voice flat. "Don't you see the world around us? Its grey, dismal, dark now that— now that—"

"Fred is dead," Lee said flatly, voice brooking no argument.

"Yes!" George spat eyes agleam maniacally. "Maybe the sun has come out for everyone else in this godforsaken world, but for me, everything is muffled, darker, because even though we might have won, I lost because Fred is _gone_. I don't care how warm and beautiful and clear the sunshine is — Fred is gone, and that's more than enough to cast clouds over any sunny day!"

Lee swallowed hard before replying. "George, I know it's hard."

"You think you know?" George cried. "Every time I look in the mirror, I see him, and it's like a serrated knife running through my heart. I loved him. He was my twin, my brother, my best friend. He didn't deserve this! He should be by my side, laughing; he shouldn't be cold, hard, dead, decomposing. My parents didn't deserve to lose Fred, and neither did I."

"Then what about me?" Lee looked at George hard and straight in the eyes. "What do I deserve? Come out of your fog, George! Maybe the sun has come out for others, but I loved Fred just as much as you. The three of us were best friends. He might not have been my brother in blood, but in every other way that mattered, _he was._ So stop wallowing in self-pity and listen to me!" Tears were running freely. "I've already lost Fred, and I won't lose you too. I couldn't survive that. Best friends stand together in good times and in bad — you're not the only one grieving, George! That's why we're going to the funeral together. Not to say goodbye to Fred, but to remind everyone else who is hurting that there is still a light behind those dark clouds."

George nodded slowly. "But I can't. I'm not strong enough."

"You are," Lee replied. "Together, we are. We've been together through the good times and the bad, George. I was beside you when we pulled our first prank,when you asked Katie Bell to the Yule ball, and more. We served our detentions together, fought together, ran Potterwatch together. And now that we've both lost Fred… this may be the darkest of times and maybe the pain clouds your mind, but remember that together, we are strong." He lowered his voice. "Furthermore, your mother needs you. Your family needs you. They've already lost one twin, George. They can't lose the other."

Georges eyes were now resolute. "You're right," he said. "You're right."

"Good. I'm going to transfigure some of your sheets into dress robes, and after the funeral, I'll grab some stuff from my flat. Your mom said I could stay the night here, if that's okay with you."

"Of course," George said.

"Then let's get ready for the funeral."

George paused. "Wait, that's today?"

"It's in a couple hours!" Lee replied, shaking his head at his friend's utter shock.

"Oh goodness…" George moaned. He staggered to his feet towards the tiny bathroom — as he opened the door, Lee noted the mirror inside was broken.

A few hours later, the two emerged from Fred and George's room clad in black dress robes and walked down to the lawn where the family waited. They all solemnly took a portkey to Hogwarts, and then Molly Weasley confidently took them through the mass graveyard, her steps sure as she picked out Fred's tombstone among the hundreds of others. How many times she must have been here before, Lee thought, if she was able to find her way to Fred's grave without pausing?

The service was short and solemn, held beneath the cloudy skies. A mass of black-robed people stood in silent mourning as, one by one, the Weasley family remembered Fred and explained just what they would miss the most about him. When Lee couldn't bear to watch Mr. Weasley trying to speak of his lost son, the pain in his voice all too evident, he glanced away, and a small sparkle caught his eye. In one corner, there sat a Pensieve, and beside it a card which read: "Please place your favorite memory of Fred here."

He would have to do that. But when the Weasley family finished talking, the guests immediately began dropping their memories of Fred into the Pensieve, and by the time they were gone and only the Lee and the Weasley family remained, Lee was far too exhausted from giving false smiles. If he thought of Fred one more time, he was certain he was going to burst into tears.

Yet when George remained by Fred's tombstone even when the rest of his family was leaving, Lee knew that he should stay with George. Both of them had known Fred best; both of them had one last respect to pay in private. Yet as they stood there beside the white tombstone, looking down at the grave through cloudy, teary, fogged vision, ready to say goodbye and apologize for letting him die, a sunbeam suddenly struck the tombstone, illuminating it with almost an otherworldly gleam.

George was beside him, standing shoulder to shoulder, and he lifted his head suddenly. "Fred?" he said, almost unbelievingly.

The tombstone began to glow even brighter, and George smiled so hard and hugged the tombstone. "Fred, come back, we need you, please come back."

The tombstone seemed to dim slightly, and Lee placed a hand on George's shoulder. "Fred can't come back," he said softly. "But I think he's saying that he wants us to be happy."

George looked up into the sunlight. "You're right," he murmured, his eyes wide. "Fred wouldn't want this." Then, stronger, "We've got to leave the clouds behind us, Lee."

"We will," Lee answered. "And we'll do it together, because that's the way Fred would want it." He helped George to his feet, and together they turned and walked away from the shadows, back towards the light.


	27. Mrs Norris's Obsession

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** short

 **Prompt:** [Speech] "I'll make better mistakes tomorrow."

 **Word count (excluding A/N):** 657

 **A/N:** Thank you Kristina and Ella for beta-ing!

oO0Oo

When Minerva stepped out of her classroom, a soft _mreow_ greeted her. After a long-suffering sigh — for grading badly written papers was exhausting — she looked down to see Filch's cat, Mrs. Norris, sitting on the ground before her. _Mreow?_ the cat said, peering up at her with wide eyes.

"Sure," Minerva sighed, smiling indulgently. After shifting into her animagus form, she purred and began walking alongside Mrs. Norris. She had to patrol the castle tonight anyways, so why not do so as a tabby cat? After all, cats had sharper hearing and keener night vision. Together, the two cats prowled through the corridors, and as they patrolled, Minerva realized that she had been seeing quite a lot of Mrs. Norris. Every evening, in fact, no matter when she left her office, she always found Mrs. Norris waiting at her door. It was as though Mrs. Norris was _escorting_ her around the castle. Suddenly rather perturbed, Minerva glanced at her mange-ridden companion. _Why are you here_? she meowed.

 _I like being with you,_ was Mrs. Norris' simple answer.

 _But why?_ Minerva pressed, her whiskers tingling as she stared at Mrs. Norris, who refused to meet her eyes. _Why do you like me?_

 _I just do. I don't know why._ Mrs. Norris rubbed her front paw across her face in a gesture uncannily reminiscent of Argus Filch, and Minerva stilled. If Filch weren't a Squib, Mrs. Norris would certainly be his familiar; as it was, the two shared an extraordinarily close bond. Did Argus… have a crush on her?

How revolting. Minerva's tail bristled and she began racing away from Mrs. Norris, ignoring the feline's yowl of _Where are you going? Stay with me!_ She had just turned the corner and escaped Mrs. Norris's company when a pair of gnarled hands picked her up.

"Now, what's this?" She was lifted high into the air, and Minerva thrashed, her claws drawing blood. Yet the man holding her — she knew it was a man — only swore and held her tighter. "Well, puss, you're far from where you're meant to be."

It was Argus. Argus Filch.

His yellow teeth grinned before her face; although she hissed up at him, he only laughed. "Oh no you don't," Argus said, tucking her under his arm. "You can't roam free in the castle." He patted her head, running his hands over her fur, and it was the last straw. Minerva transformed back to her human form in his hands, which may have been a mistake, because in her human form, his hands were rather... awkwardly placed. Surprisingly, though, while he staggered, he didn't drop her. He must have braced himself — had be been expecting the sudden weight of a human woman in his arms? Eyes narrowed, Minerva spat, "Unhand me, Argus."

"Sorry Minerva," he said, looking entirely unrepentant as he lowered her to the ground. "It was a mistake, honest! In the dark, I didn't recognize your animagus form."

Entirely unconvinced, she said nothing; however, gathering the shards of her dignity around her, she warned, "Just make sure that _never_ happens again." Then she theatrically swept her cloak around her and strode away. When she could no longer see him, she transformed back into a cat, ready to stalk away on silent feet, but then she heard him whisper, "Do you think she's gone?"

 _Yes,_ Mrs. Norris purred.

"Then did you see that?" There was unholy glee in Argus' voice. "That wasn't an 'accident' — and I'll make better 'mistakes' tomorrow..."

Disgusted by his insinuations, Minerva hurried away, a new lesson plan already forming in her mind. She would teach him… when her students learned how to transform virtually anything into stinking, sticky slime and he came to her with complaints, she would retort it was only an "accident", then smile and say, "But don't worry, Argus — _I'll make better mistakes tomorrow._ "


	28. One Scrap of Parchment

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** drabble

 **Prompt:** [First Line] The parchment she/he just received simply said very clever.

 **Word Count:** 497

 **A/N:** Thank you Lorax for helping me finish, Star for the beta-ing, and Rabbit for beta-ing also. You guys are the best! 3

oO0Oo

The parchment he just received simply said ' _very clever'_ , but the words were written in Lily's flowing script, complete with the trademark squiggle which she always insisted was her initials. Lily thought he was clever?

"Did Lily really send this?" James asked.

"Of course!" Marlene whispered. "Oh— Minnie's giving us the evil eye..." Marlene hurriedly began copying the definition of inanimate transformations; James would have done the same, but for the life of him, he couldn't concentrate on something as mundane as Transfiguration. _Lily Evans_ thought he was clever. Very clever, in fact. He spent the rest of the class in a daze, dreaming how afterwards, he would sweep Lily off her feet and she would finally go to Hogsmeade with him…

When the bell rang, James didn't even notice it — it was only when Sirius tapped his shoulder and said, "You okay, mate?" that James woke.

"Yeah— where's Lily?" he asked, jumping to his feet and scanning the classroom.

"Er, she already left." Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Prongs, are you okay?"

"I will be," James answered, throwing his satchel over his shoulder and striding to the door. "Where's Lily?"

Sirius shrugged. "I heard her say she was going to the library."

"Thanks!" James hurried from the classroom, ignoring the curious expression of his mate, too fixated on finding Lily Evans and asking her to Hogsmeade. When he entered the library, he caught a glimpse of Lily's red hair through the stacks, and he made his way over to her. She didn't realize he was there, though; she just kept paging through the monstrous tome before her, so James coughed quietly, then whispered, "Lily, what's that?"

"Arithmancy," Lily answered, not looking up from her book. "It's absolutely fascinating, and—" Then she glanced up, saw him, and stopped.

"Hey, you can talk to me!" James said. "I'll understand it. Remus talks about Arithmancy all the time!"

"But— but, Potter…"

"I thought you said I was 'very clever'," James retorted. "Come on Evans, give me a chance!"

"When did I say you were _clever_?" Lily asked, her brow scrunching in confusion.

"In that note in McGonagall's class!" James cried.

"What note? Wait — are you quoting that note I sent to Remus?"

"Remus?" James froze.

"Ugh, Marlene…" Lily groaned, a faint blush on her cheeks. "She's so persistent! That note was for Remus, not you! I don't know why she thinks I like you—" Suddenly, as if realizing what she was saying and who she was saying it to, she stopped, her cheeks now crimson.

"Maybe because it's true?" James asked, waggling his eyebrows. Conjuring a rose, he knelt on the floor of the library and said, "Lily, would you go to Hogsmeade with me?"

"Of course not," Lily answered, but James could tell it lacked her usual fire.

"Then maybe next time," James said, smiling at her before he walked away. "Even if you won't admit I'm clever, you _will_ admit I'm exceedingly handsome. Bye, Lily!"


	29. Brave

House: Slytherin

Category: Short

Word Count: 694

Prompt: [Word] Brave

A/N: First off, this is an AU. Second off, a huge thank-you to Carol and Kristina for beta-ing! 3

oO0Oo

The gravestone simply reads Neville Longbottom and sits on a small plot of freshly-turned earth, atop which grows a small Mimbulus mimbletonia. The site is quiet in the early morning stillness, but Augusta Longbottom is not alone. With her, she brings the memories of Neville's father, of Neville's mother, and of Neville himself.

At the thought, a tear begins slide down her old, wizened face. Neville. He is gone now, completely so, and in part, she knows it was her fault. So many times, she compared him to his father. All Neville had wanted was her approval, but she had always ignored him. She had always said he wasn't as brave as his father, as noble as his father, as Gryffindor as his father. And now, she is paying the price.

"I'm so sorry," she says, her voice quiet. "Oh Neville, you didn't have to be brave to make me happy, you didn't have to be your father to make me happy… you just had to survive."

She knows she will never forget the Battle of Hogwarts. It had been the final stand against Voldemort, and the last time she had seen Neville. He had been duelling Death Eaters, holding his own against them, and when the fighting had paused, Voldemort's cold, high voice echoing throughout the entire school, she had sought out her grandson. Her memories play through her mind, sending more tears trickling down her cheeks.

"Did you see me, Gran?" Neville stands so tall, so strong, so battle-weary, and the familiar desire for approval gleaming in his eyes.

"Of course I did," she answers. "And your wandwork needs improvement." That evening, she teaches him countless spells and incantations, preparing him for the battle ahead.

And the next morning, the fragile peace shatters, and the fighting resumes. It is brutal and vicious - but when Hagrid brings Harry's pale, limp body in from the Forbidden Forest, everyone pauses, and Voldemort speaks. "Harry Potter is dead," he says simply. "Surrender, or die."

Augusta stands frozen, shocked, unable to comprehend Voldemort's words. Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, is dead. Her knees begin to tremble, and all around her she sees others, their own faces wearing varying degrees of surprise, surprise, and despair. But then she ses her grandson, Neville, standing firm and true.

"I will never surrender," he shouts, his wand clenched in his fist.

"Neville Longbottom." Voldemort appraises her grandson, running his red eyes over his sweaty, bloody form. "You are of pure blood, and you show loyalty, Neville Longbottom. You would make a valuable Death Eater."

"I would never join you," Neville spits.

Voldemort's eyes narrow. "Then you shall die." With a flick of his wand, Voldemort has her grandson immobilized, the Sorting Hat atop his head. "There shall be no more Sorting at Hogwarts," he proclaims. "Instead, there shall only be the noble House of Salazar Slytherin." Then the Sorting Hat bursts into flames.

Augusta watches it burn, her grandson frozen beneath it, and knows he will die… but then he leaps to his feet, the still-burning Sorting Hat clutched in his hands, and from its depths he draws the ruby-encrusted sword of Gryffindor. With a roar, he charges forward, flames wreathing his head, and in a single stroke he beheads Voldemort's monstrous snake.

He screams his victory and his defiance to the entire world - then, a bolt of deadly green light strikes him, and he crumples. As he falls, the sunlight flashes against the sword's silver blade, and she glimpses the inscription. It reads: Godric Gryffindor.

With a start, Augusta remembers where she is. She is kneeling at Neville's grave, flowers in her hand. She gets to her feet, the words of Gryffindor echoing in her ears:

 _You might belong in Gryffindor,_

 _Where dwell the brave at heart,_

 _Their daring, nerve, and chivalry_

 _Set Gryffindors apart._

"Oh Neville," she whispers, "You didn't have to be a Gryffindor to make me proud." She leaves the flowers atop his gravestone, her smile sad.

He may have died a true Gryffindor, brave beyond measure, but that doesn't matter to her anymore. Now, Augusta only wants one thing: her grandson, alive and at her side again.


	30. Severus Snape : Jealous

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Theme

 **Prompt:** [Speech] "H-how long have you been standing there?"

 **Word Count:** 2264

 **A/N:** My love to Lorax and Dark Lady Kristina for beta-ing :)

oO0Oo

He strides through the corridor, his black robes billowing around him. Severus Snape wants nothing more than to return to his rooms; however, Dumbledore's demands are incessant: follow Quirinus Quirrell, protect the Philosopher's Stone, watch over Harry Potter, and continue teaching his various Potions classes. At the thought of his tasks, Severus sighs. He is tired of Dumbledore's games, of Quirrell's suspicious behaviour, and most of all, he is tired of seeing Harry James Potter, a constant reminder of his failure. Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Savior of the Wizarding World… Severus continues angrily down the corridor, focused on only how _irritating_ Harry Potter is... until he hears footsteps. Heavy footsteps. This is no child approaching; in fact, Severus recognizes this particular gait. It is nervous, stuttering — it is Quirinus Quirrell.

Ducking into an abandoned classroom, Severus presses himself against the wall. Through the crack in the door, he spies a turbaned man heading towards the third floor. After Quirinus turns the corner, Severus grabs the door handle and begins to follow, ready to see what mischief his fellow Professor is getting into tonight; however, just as he is leaving, the dull glint of gold catches his eye.

Lying against the far wall, covered in a faded cloth, there sits an old mirror. The word _ERISED_ is written in flowing script across the top, and in spite of himself, his curiosity is piqued. Severus softly shuts the door and walks across the abandoned classroom until he is standing before the mirror. It is as tall as him, and a good deal wider; after a second's hesitation, Severus pulls away the cloth covering it.

What he sees within defies all his expectations.

He sees himself standing in the mirror, his stance confident and proud. His left arm is unmarked, his normally greasy hair clean and pushed back, and his eyes are soft, not hard with rage, bitterness, or jealousy.

And he isn't alone. Lily stands beside him, her emerald green eyes sparkling as she laughs at something he said. Her hand rests on his shoulder, and she smiles down at a small boy with wavy black hair, a hooked nose, and green eyes. The boy wears Hogwarts robes and stands between the two of them — he is so small that he must be a first year — and then the boy looks up and mouths, "Dad."

With trembling fingers, Severus reaches out for the images, willing for them to be real, only for his fingers to collide with cold smooth glass. This is an illusion. It could never happen, and at the thought, anger begins to bubble within him. He knows what the mirror shows. It shows what could have been, had Lily only chosen him. They could have married, had a son, and been happy. But instead, she chose James Potter; James Potter, who had had everything Severus had ever wanted in life. Even Lily.

Closing his eyes, resting his forehead against the cool, unyielding glass, Severus sighs, losing himself in memories of the past, of what was, and remembering once again what can never be.

. . . . . . . . . .

A boy strides into their compartment, his messy black hair unkempt and his hazel eyes alight with excitement. "Look what I can do!" he cries in lieu of greeting, plopping down beside Lily and drawing his wand. " _Lumos_."

The tip of his wand begins to glow, and Severus watches as Lily's eyes widen with surprise, then admiration. "Who are you and how did you do that?" she asks.

"I'm James Potter," the boy replies with an easy grin. "My parents taught me that. They were so excited when I got my letter — here, I'll show you how to do it too, take your wand and repeat after me…"

Severus watches as the boy — James — teaches Lily how to cast her first spell, trying to ignore the bitter taste in his mouth. James's parents taught him that spell. They had been _happy_ for him to go to Hogwarts. His own father's drunken, angry face flashes before his eyes, and Severus's hands tighten around his wand.

It is the first time Severus Snape is jealous of James Potter.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

He sees them joking, laughing, the undisputed center of attention. They may only be third years, but they are the Marauders.

It has only taken two years, Severus thinks, but already James Potter has amassed legions of fans and a multitude of friends. He looks at his own table, to Avery, Mulciber, and Rodolphus, those that he calls "friends". He knows they see him as nothing more than a tool, a dirty halfblood suited for unsavoury tasks. Of all the people at Hogwarts, only Lily is his true friend, and even she tolerates Potter.

If only he had friends like Potter did. Friends he could trust with his life, with his secrets; friends he could be seen in public with without the jeers and taunts of his House. If only.

But he is Severus Snape, not James Potter.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"And Rosier reaches for the Snitch… and Potter scores again! It's amazing— it's stupendous— GRYFFINDOR WINS, 320-310!"

The section opposite his breaks into cheers, becoming an explosion of red and gold, and Severus scowls. Of course Potter scored again at the last second, bringing Gryffindor back from the brink of defeat. Of course. Potter is nothing less than perfect.

He watches the Gryffindors swarm Potter as he lands, a flash of familiar red hair among the mob. Potter struts about, no doubt glorying in his fame, and Severus turns away, unable to look at Potter any longer. He is everything Severus is not. He is the Quidditch star, the pride of his House, the popular, athletic, handsome "celebrity". Meanwhile, Severus is a sallow-skinned Slytherin halfblood whose only saving grace is that he's good at Potions.

His scowl deepens.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

James and Severus stand inside the Headmaster's office, like two sides of a coin. Severus is still shaking from his brush with death; however, he still snarls, "Remus Lupin is a _werewolf_!" Stalking to the window, he pulls back the curtain in a single, angry gesture, filling the room with a silvery light. "Headmaster, there is a full moon and he almost _killed_ me! Lock him up! Send him away! Ki—"

"No. Don't." It is James who interrupts, tired and world-weary. He runs his fingers through his hair, a conflicted expression on his face, then says, "It's not Remus's fault, Headmaster. He has been safely transforming in the Shrieking Shack for years. It's— it's Sirius'."

"Sirius Black?" Dumbledore speaks for the first time, peering over his half-moon spectacles to take a closer look at James, and Snape feels the familiar flash of anger. Dumbledore always protects his precious lions...

"Sirius told Snape to go to the Shrieking Shack. He knew Snape would meet a werewolf — he wanted him to die — but I managed to get there in time and save him."

"You confronted a werewolf." Snape knows he isn't imagining the surprise in Dumbledore's eyes.

James looks at the ground. "I did."

"To save Mister Snape."

"I did," James answers, his voice surer now, his eyes now firmly on Dumbledore's. "And I would do it again."

Admiration shines in Dumbledore's eyes. "You are dismissed, Mr Potter. Go to the Hospital Wing and have Madam Pomfrey check on you."

"Of course, Headmaster." James begins to walk away, but as he's pulling the door closed behind him, he nods at Severus. "Take care." Then he leaves.

Severus watches the door swing shut, a sinking feeling in his chest. James risked his life to save him; if he were in such a position, Severus doesn't know what he would do. Perhaps he would fight, but more likely, he would fly.

"Mr. Snape, I am sure you will not speak of tonight's happenings with anybody."

"Yes," Severus answers mechanically, his despair increasing ten-fold. Of course James Potter has Dumbledore's favor. After all, James Potter is a paragon of the Light; he has qualities that Severus can only dream of.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"I don't need help from mudbloods like _you_."

The words come easy, casual in their cruelty, and on Lily's trusting, open face, he sees pain, hurt, betrayal.

"What did you just call her?" James bellows, whipping his wand out. "You take that back, Snape!"

"I called her a mudblood," Severus repeats, "because that is what she is." Every word destroys him, but he can feel rather than see his fellow Slytherins gathering around him, and knows that they, too, are drawing their wands. "She is a filthy mudblood."

"You take that back!" James yells, brandishing his wand, but then Lily shrieks, "Stop!"

He quiets, looking to her. Severus does as well, and at the sight of the tears running down her cheeks, something cracks within him.

"I— I don't need you to fight my battles, Potter," she sniffles. James moves towards her, trying to envelop her in a hug, but she bats him away. Instead, she glares at Severus, her normally soft, laughing green eyes hard with bitterness and rage. "Goodbye, Snivellus," she spits, and before Severus can try to apologize, she is gone, running back towards the castle.

James turns back to face him. "This isn't over," he warns. Then he, too, is gone, chasing after Lily, the rest of the Marauders with him.

Severus watches them go, knowing that he has just made his choice. He has chosen his House over Lily; he has chosen the Darkness over the Light. If only he had it as easy as James. James was born to the Light. He has never had to choose — will never have to choose — between his friends and his life. But Severus has, and just as he feared, he has chosen to survive.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

When Lily starts going out with Potter, Severus can only stare, the taste of ash on his tongue. This is his fault — all his fault — but he knows Potter still doesn't deserve her. Not that he deserves her, either.

He watches her with Potter, watches her hold his hand, and something within him begins to crumble.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

When he isn't invited to their wedding, he isn't surprised. But it still stings, and in a fit of jealous rage he brings the prophecy to the Dark Lord. He never imagined it would cause her death, but he would be lying if he said he hadn't hoped it would kill her husband. Then, maybe just once, he would have more than James Potter.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

Oh, his jealousy of James Potter has led him to do many terrible things...

Severus begins to turn away from the mirror, a mixture of sorrow and guilt lying heavy in his stomach. But as he does so, he catches a glimpse of the child in the mirror, the child who has _his_ features and Lily's eyes.

That child is a lie.

Harry Potter is the truth, though, and at the thought, anger flashes through Severus. Of course James spoiled the last piece of Lily that survived the Dark Lord. Of course the last bit of Lily — her son — looks almost exactly like James. James has always had everything Severus has ever wanted; Severus has spent a lifetime jealous of James Potter. To see what could have been standing in the mirror — Lily, him, their child — and to know what really was…

Severus draws his wand in one slow, deliberate movement. The phrase _Bombarda Maxima_ is on the tip of his tongue… but before he can utter a word he sees the child in the mirror — his son in the mirror — standing alone, a tear rolling down his cheek as he waves goodbye and mouths, "I love you, Dad."

Severus stills, something within him breaking.

"I am sorry," he whispers, reaching out to the boy, trying to comfort him, only to feel cool glass meet his fingertips. "You never had a chance, my son."

The boy smiles sadly up at him, and then Severus sees himself in the mirror, doing what he cannot: his mirror-self kneels beside the boy, then embraces him. At the sight, tears begin to well up in Severus's own eyes, and then he is crying at the foot of the mirror, crying for what he has lost, and for what he shall never regain.

Then he hears a quiet cough.

Severus spins to find Dumbledore behind him. "H-how long have you been standing there?" he chokes out, angrily scrubbing away the tears with the long sleeve of his robe.

"Not long," Dumbledore answers, his blue eyes dark. "But be careful, Severus. Many have wasted their lives staring into the mirror's depths."

"I— I understand," Severus replies. "It won't happen again."

"Then I shall leave you to it." As silently as he have entered, Dumbledore leaves, and after the door shuts behind him with a _click_ , Severus turns back to the mirror and the figures contained within. They smile sadly at him, as if they already know what he is going to do, and after one last apology — "I wish it didn't have to be this way " — Severus draws the faded cloth over the mirror and walks out of the room, never once looking back.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

He never visits the Mirror of Erised again, but when he dies for Harry's sake, his blood running down Harry's arms, staining Harry's robes a deep, dark red, he knows he has finally done something right with his life. Harry could have been the son he never had, had he only given the boy half a chance.


	31. The Mirror of Erised

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Theme

 **Prompt:** [First Line] When you think about it, humans are strange creatures, especially when they're wizards.

 **Word Count:** 2099

 **A/N:** My love to the lovely Kristina and Carol for beta-ing. And for all readers - this features some very very heavy AU elements, so watch out! ;)

oO0Oo

When you think about it, humans are strange creatures, especially when they're wizards. They create an artifact which instills jealousy in even the purest of hearts, and do not destroy it. Instead, they allow it to ruin countless lives.

The Mirror of Erised. The Mirror of Desire.

Before its shimmering, silky smooth surface, upon which appears the viewer's deepest, darkest desire, none can resist the Mirror's pull. They delve into its depths, gazing at its alluring, empty promises with wonder in their eyes.

But when one stares into the abyss, what stares back?

. . . . . . . . . . . .

He stands before the mirror. It is aptly named — The Mirror of Erised — and although many would laugh at the thought of he, Albus Dumbledore, desiring more, he nevertheless does. He steels himself before he dares look into its depths. He may have told young Harry that all he sees is himself, holding a pair of thick, woolen socks, but he knows that to be a lie. If only he saw thick, woolen socks. He knows he desires more, knows he desires the ultimate defeat of Tom Riddle, but what is it that he truly wants?

He doesn't know what he shall see. Part of him doesn't _want_ to know. He begins to leave, but as he does, he catches a glimpse of sky-blue eyes, the eyes that still haunt his dreams. He turns. There in the mirror stands Gellert Grindelwald.

"Gellert," Albus breathes. He approaches the mirror, staring into its murky depths. As he watches, Gellert is joined by Aberforth, then Ariana, who smiles and beckons to another figure beyond the mirror. At her call, an altered likeness of himself joins the image. All four laugh and wave, and Albus feels the bitter sting of regret. Oh, if he hadn't fought Gellert, but rather joined him… who knows what might have been?

Then the scene shifts. He sees himself standing beside Gellert. Gellert is the Minister of Magic, Dumbledore the Headmaster of Hogwarts. Together, they shape the future.

He could have had that future, had he only done a few thing differently… if he hadn't abandoned him, Gellert wouldn't have fallen.

He shouldn't have pushed Aberforth aside.

He shouldn't have quarreled with Gellert.

He should have agreed with his brilliant friend, fought for the Greater Good, and then, he could have been happy.

He reaches out, placing his trembling fingers against the mirror's cold glass. The mirror of Erised shows his deepest, darkest desire: to still have Gellert, Aberforth, and Ariana.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

At Gellert's insistence, Albus gazes into the Mirror of Desire. He sees himself standing there, alone in a classroom. His alternate self stares at him, tears welling in his eyes, then reaches out, placing one hand against the mirror, longing and jealousy in his eyes, as if he _wanted_ what he sees before him.

Albus shakes his head. The old man on the other side — himself — is a fool. This isn't what he wants. Every day, his regrets what he has done.

He should have fought Gellert. He should have stopped the "Greater Good"; he should have _never_ let Ariana marry his one-time best friend. But he had stepped aside and allowed it all to happen, and by the time he finally began to act upon his unease, it had been already too late.

What he wouldn't give to have had stood up for his beliefs, and not allowed Gellert to dominate his life. These days, Aberforth is agreeable, Ariana happily married, but Albus knew that is all Gellert's doing — he suspects that Aberforth is under the _Imperius_ , and he knows that Ariana's safety is entirely dependent on his good behaviour.

Thus, he is trapped. He is Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, Prime Minister Grindlewald's right-hand man, but he is also a puppet who dances to Gellert's tune.

He looks at his mirror-self, who gazes at _him_ with longing in his eyes, and Albus knows he looked the same. What he wants, he can never have.

He is jealous of his mirror-self. That Albus stands alone, strong and independent, bowing to no one and no thing. That Albus did not sacrifice his morals. That Albus acted. What he sees in the mirror is his heart's deepest desire, one that he can never have.

He reaches out with trembling fingers.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Harry's green eyes light up when he returns to the mirror and, just as before, he sees his family. His mother stands there, her eyes soft and loving while she gazes at him, and his father is beside her, his bearing proud, regal, and he, too, looks upon Harry as though he were the most important, most precious, thing in his life.

For a boy raised in a cupboard and told repeatedly he is a freak, this is balm for his troubled soul. His family is before him, and they accept him as he is. Had they not been murdered by Voldemort, Harry knows he would have been loved and cherished. He looks at the figures in the mirror, tears welling in his eyes.

If only they were real.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

James stares into the mirror, his eyes wide with disbelief. He is both surprised and unsurprised by what he sees: he supposes his greatest wish is to see his son, but the boy before him is so grown-up, a far cry from the babe he held in his arms. "Is that… Harry?"

"It is," Lily replies, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "That could have been him, in his first year…"

What she doesn't say is that Harry looks thin, lonely. She doesn't say that Harry would only have survived that terrible Halloween night if they hadn't trusted Peter Pettigrew near their child. The betrayal stings, but ever more painful is the knowledge that if they had only been slightly more careful, Harry might have survived.

Together, Lily and James stare into the Mirror of Desire. They may be the Charms and Transfiguration Professors respectively, with three children of their own, but looking at their lost first child, their life feels empty.

If only they had been more careful.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Draco is cold and hopeless as he wanders aimlessly through the Room of Forgotten Things. His latest attempt to repair the vanishing cabinet has failed, like so many attempts before. He is at his lowest, about to reach his breaking point — and then he spots a curious object shrouded in a dirty white sheet. He grabs the sheet, pulling it away to reveal a large, antique mirror. It seems entirely unremarkable, but then he looks into its depths, and he stumbles backwards in shock. That isn't his reflection staring back at him. Instead, he sees himself standing beside his parents, his father looking at him proudly with one arm wrapped around his shoulders in an open display of affection. His mother is cradling a baby, a sibling he has long wished for but never had. Even more startling, though, is the witch, who gazes at him with love and kindness in her eyes. Astoria.

He is seeing the deepest, and most desperate wish in his heart, something that can never be. He knows he will never be so loved, not by his family, not like that.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Why are you showing me this?" Draco snaps, trying shuffle away from his wife. But his parents stand behind him, and try as he might, Draco knows he can't disappoint them. They are so proud of him, their eldest son, already so _happily_ married, and to the respectable Greengrass family's youngest daughter no less. Never mind that Draco knows Astoria drugged him with Amortentia. There is no other way that he entered the Leaky Cauldron in search of Hermione Granger, and then woke months later to find himself married to Astoria Greengrass. "Why is this old mirror so important?"

"Because it's an old family piece," she replies. "Supposedly, it shows your deepest desire. Come on, Draco. Look into it for me?" She digs her perfectly manicured nails into his forearm.

Sighing, Draco does so. He gazes deep into the mirror and sees himself standing there, tall and strong, not needing anyone's approval. Merlin how he wishes that were the case. He wishes he were that strong, able to break free of the lies that surround him. How he wishes he could be rid of the witch that had trapped him, and follow his heart. Jealousy grips his soul, he turns on his heel and storms past his stunned wife and parents. He will never be free. Not like his other self. The boy in the mirror is young, with his entire future spread before him; he seems haunted, but he can still save himself.

For Draco, it is already too late. Astoria told him yesterday that they were going to have a baby, that she was already seven weeks pregnant. At the thought, bile rises in his throat. He really is trapped. Forever.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Harry, why do you want to show me a mi— _oh_."

"Don't you see it, Ron? See my family?"

"No…" Ron replies. He doesn't see Harry's family; far from it. Instead, he sees himself. But not as he is now, small, freckled, scrawny. Instead he sees a man, one who stands proudly, the Head Boy's badge glittering on his chest, the latest broom slung over his shoulder, his name emblazoned over the front page of the Daily Prophet for setting the new OWLs record, and a beautiful witch on his arm. "I see… me."

"You?"

Ron sighs, longing in his gaze. What he wouldn't give to be the heroic figure in the mirror. "Yeah," he says. "I only see me."

But he doesn't tell Harry everything. He doesn't tell Harry how he is alone because he is the first of his brothers. He doesn't tell Harry how he has done everything he has ever wanted to in his life: he is Head Boy, Quidditch Captain, Brightest Wizard of the Age, and a steady, loving boyfriend. The man before him is everything Ron has ever wanted… he stares up at the image, his eyes wide with wonder. What he sees… that is what he wants.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Ronald glances into the mirror, expecting to see himself, to see his perfectly staged flyaway hair, his even, blinding white teeth, his ocean-blue eyes. But instead, he sees a child, a first year. The boy looks up at him with wide eyes, and Ronald notes the similarities between him and this child. In fact, this child seems like… him?

He takes a step closer, peering at the boy. There are similarities, that is for certain. They share the same nose, the same blue eyes, the same gangly frame. But that is where the similarities end. The boy's face is covered in freckles, so many that his skin appears to be deep brown in place of his natural pasty hue; furthermore, his ears stick out, his hair is ragged, and his robes — the boy's robes are threadbare and bear multiple patches.

But then Ronald notices the boy's jumper, and his blood runs cold. The jumper is hand-knit in scarlet and gold, typical Gryffindork colors, and there is a monstrous 'R' on the front.

'R', for Ronald.

Ronald takes a step back, his breathing suddenly shallow, unbelieving. What he sees… is himself. Himself, years younger, still raised by the Weasleys. That boy wears the Weasley jumpers he used to see Bill and Charlie sporting around Christmas-time, and that Fred and George used to wear, when Mrs. Greengrass let them. Not that Narcissa Malfoy had ever allowed _him_ to wear anything as common as a hand-knit jumper, and from his birth mother, no less. She had always insisted that Ronald, as her adopted son, live up to the family name — and thus he had doven into studying, sports, and Slytherin.

But what could he have been, if he hadn't given himself up for the Malfoys? He could have been the boy in the mirror… jealousy gnaws at his heart, and suddenly, although he was once content with his place, he now wishes to know just _what_ would have happened, had he been raised with Molly Weasley, and not Narcissa Malfoy.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The Mirror of Desire; the Mirror of Erised.

So many do not understand it — they are completely convinced that the mirror only shows their deepest wishes, their deepest wants, but really, it is more. It shows alternate dimensions, what could have been to what was, in all the myriad branching ways.

One person looks in; another looks out. For when one stares into the abyss, what stares back?


	32. Acromantula

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Drabble

 **Year:** Prefect #1

 **Word Count:** 439

 **Prompt:** [Creature] Acromantula

 **A/N:** This is ridiculous, but so I do not lose points, there are various dark themes such as horror, suspense, and AU in this fic. Yes, AU is a dark theme XD

 **A/N #2:** Thank you Kristina for beta-ing!

oO0Oo

The moon shone down on the Forbidden Forest, its harsh silvery light casting strange dancing shadows upon the thin, tapered, finger-like branches which reached out, as if trying to pluck unwary travellers from their paths. Monstrous tree trunks loomed in the darkness, and the quiet rustle of leaves as various creatures moved through the night echoed in James's ears.

The Forest was beautiful at night.

And for tonight, he was one of its denizens. Tonight, he could prance through its depths unmolested. With a low groan, the trees shifted in the wind, allowing the light of the full moon to reach the forest floor. Its harsh light illuminated James, and he blinked in the sudden brightness; then, he heard it. A heart-wrenching cry of almost unbearable loneliness echoed throughout the entire forest.

It was Remus. His howl spoke of pain and beauty hand in hand, of both the curse and the peace of lycanthropy. James held still, listening to his friend call upon the moon… then the leaves behind him rustled. James spun, ready to charge whichever creature had decided he looked delectable… but there was nothing. Yet in the shadowy darkness of the forest, something glimmered.

What was it? His body tense, James cautiously stepped forward. His hoof brushed against something soft and sticky; looking down, he saw a cable or silvery silk as thick as his foreleg. What… what was that?

The leaves rustled again, and James stumbled backwards, his four slender legs tangling on each other. He hurriedly regained his footing, but by then it was too late — when he raised his head, he saw pincers as large as his horns looming above him, the spittle coating them hanging down almost to the forest floor. Raising his gaze, he met the eight bulbous eyes which stared unblinkingly at him… whinnying in shock and alarm, James reared back, throwing his forelegs before him, hoping to impale the monstrous spider's eyes—

But the pincers snapped shut around his leg.

James bleated in distress, thrashing in the acromantula's hold as it slowly and inexorably dragged him closer to its mouth… then, a flash of silvery grey darted between James and the spider, and gashes appeared upon the acromantula's flesh. It released James, turning to face its assailant.

James turned as well, swivelling to see Remus in the moonlight, his canines bared and his claws unsheathed. Remus snarled, almost foaming at the mouth, his amber eyes feral and merciless… then he charged the acromantula, and all James could think was, _If it weren't for Remus, Sirius would be writing my tombstone, and it would say: the spider ate well._


	33. Sleeping Lily

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** short

 **Prompt:** [Action] Sleeping

 **Word Count:** 805

 **A/N:** So that I do not lose points, there are various dark themes such as canonical character death, slight AU, and sleep deprivation in this fic. If such themes bother you, do not read on.

 **A/N #2:** Thank you Kristina, Lorax and Sofia for beta-ing :)

oO0Oo

 _My candle burns at both ends;_

 _It will not last the night;_

 _But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—_

 _It gives a lovely light._

-EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

oO0Oo

"Look, I've been busy, okay?" Lily said rather defensively. Pointing the kitchen knife at Sirius, she gestured with it as she continued, "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is trying to kill Harry, to kill us, and I'm not going to let him."

Sirius sighed, raking his hand through his hair. "I know, Lils, it's just… I'm worried about you." When he had walked into the Potter Cottage, he had immediately noted how sunken her eyes were, how pallid a hue her skin held, how her slender hands had trembled as she held the door. "Please take care of yourself."

"Don't worry about me," she replied, a tired smile on her lips. "I'll take care of myself once Harry and James are safe, Sirius."

"Lily, you can't keep staying up all night trying to invent protective charms or potions. Harry and James need you. I'm serious."

"Aren't you always Sirius?" she said with a soft chuckle.

"That's not the point!" Godric, she was stubborn. "Lily, I need you to take care of yourself. Get more sleep!"

She sighed. "Fine, Sirius, I'll sleep tonight."

"Thank you," Sirius huffed. Then he leaned on the countertop, lowering his voice confidentially. "James has been worried about you, too. Says you hardly sleep. Says you hardly eat. He's worried that you're going to burn yourself out."

"I know, I know." She returned to chopping, refusing to meet Sirius's eyes. "But I know I won't survive this war. But I have to make sure Harry and James do. Even if it means working incredibly long hours."

"Lily…"

"I don't have long, Sirius. I'm going to die, so I _have_ to do as much as I can. I might be exhausted now — but I'll have my eternal rest soon enough." She laughed, a sharp, bitter, tired sound.

Sirius stared at her, unable to believe this was Lily Evans Potter standing before him. "Have— have you told James yet?" was all he managed to say.

"Not yet," she answered. "But I will soon. I just have to _accomplish_ something first.

If I told him, he'd insist I spend every waking moment with Harry, but this war… defeating He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named… it goes beyond us." She paused, putting down her knife. "I'm researching how _he_ is still alive. Dumbledore suspects he is partially immortal… and to stop this war, we need to find out how to kill him."

Sirius blinked. "Really?"

"Yes," she replied, picking back up the knife and cutting open a tomato, sending its bright red innards all over her cutting board. "What I'm doing — it goes beyond Harry, beyond James, even beyond the Order. Everyone will be better off when that _monster_ is dead. Even the Death Eaters. And I'm close — I'm so close."

Sirius swallowed hard. "Wow," was all he managed to say. "You're—- you're amazing, Lils." He walked around the counter and enveloped her in a hug, holding her fragile frame close to his own. "But I still want you to take care of yourself," he murmured into her hair. "Please."

She was silent, standing there in his hug… then she murmured, "Fine."

That night, Sirius didn't leave the Potter Cottage until he was certain Lily was asleep. But it hadn't taken much; a muttered incantation had been enough to send her to the couch, where she lay sprawled out and snoring, drool puddling beneath her cheek.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

A week later, he would return to the Cottage only to find it in ruins. Icy cold dread pooled in his stomach as he sprinted inside, his wand drawn. He passed James' crumpled frame, fixated on only one thing: finding Harry. He could grieve later — his first duty was to his godson. If said godson was still alive.

He burst into Harry's room. Bizarrely, the first thing he noted was the intact crib. Then he saw the toddler lying in the crib, motionless… "Harry!" he shouted, his grief threatening to overwhelm him. "No— not you too—" He tenderly laid one hand on Harry's little arm… and realized that the child was warm.

"Pafoo?" Harry's emerald green eyes — Lily's eyes — were looking up at Sirius, alert and curious. "Up!" he demanded, stretching his arms up at Sirius.

"Okay pup," Sirius answered with a groan, lifting Harry from the crib. "I— I think I'm going to be taking care of you now…"

"Momma! Momma!" Harry cried, leaning precariously in Sirius's hold.

"I don't know where—" Then Sirius's eyes fell onto where Harry was pointing. "Oh— Lily."

She lay on the floor like a rag doll, her limbs bent at unnatural angles, her green eyes open and unseeing.

Harry blinked. "Momma?" he said, his voice quavering.

"Your— your momma is sleeping," Sirius answered, his own voice trembling as he knelt down to gently shut Lily's eyes. "She— she's going to be sleeping for a long time."


	34. Dumbledore's Lies

**House:** Slytherin

 **Position:** Prefect #1

 **Category:** Theme

 **Prompt:** [Speech] "Huh, you weren't kidding that you don't know how to."

 **Word Count:** 2950

 **A/N:** This fic is a companion piece to Daronwyk's theme, **Know Thyself**. However, it is also stand-alone. Enjoy!

oO0Oo

It would happen tonight. Dumbledore knew that when he took Harry out of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy would lead the Death Eaters into Hogwarts. In the confusion, Dumbledore would be "cornered", and then he would die. But as always, death was the next new adventure… and Dumbledore knew that everything he was doing tonight was for the Greater Good. He would set Harry on the path of killing the horcruxes — and he would secure Severus's position as Voldemort's trusted operative.

Ah, Severus. How long it had been… how he had barely believed the man would join him… but he had. As they flew back to the castle, where his death awaited, his fever-addled brain kept thinking one thing. Without Severus Snape, it would have been much different. Perhaps he had manipulated the man and countless others, but it had been for the Greater Good... He let his mind wander back to the day Snape had joined the Light, remembering his greatest triumph as he turned Voldemort's best and brightest to him.

 _It had been a dark night when Severus slipped into Hog's Head. He was young, barely out of Hogwarts, but his eyes were heavy and his gait slow, as though he had seen terrible things that he would never speak of but always carry with him in a burden. Dumbledore supposed that as Tom's servant, that was typical. "I must admit, I was surprised when I received your owl," he said, not moving or even looking surprised as Severus slipped into his chair in the meeting room._

" _I had no other choice," Severus replied, his voice sure, certain, and passionate in its intensity. "There was no one else."_

 _Dumbledore smirked slightly, leaning forward in his seat. This was interesting. He was Severus's last hope… "Really."_

 _He could see Severus's jaw tighten; the man no doubt hated himself for what he was doing. "Do you imagine I would come to_ _ **you**_ _if there was anyone else on this earth I could turn to first?"_

 _Dumbledore sighed. "I must admit," he said, steepling his fingers and regarding Severus over the rim of his half-moon glasses. "I had hoped you had moved past such misguided anger." In a clear body-language, he leaned back in his chair, signalling his disconnection from the conversation. "Why are you here, Severus?"_

" _Lily." He said the word with such desperation, such passion, and Dumbledore was touched/surprised to think he still cared for her. She was married to his childhood enemy, after all, with a son on the way. Severus whispered, as though even saying the words would make them too real, "Her life is in grave danger. Her whole family."_

 _Regarding Severus over the rim of his half-moon glasses, wondering just what was going through the Death Eater's mind, Dumbledore asked, "Why?"_

" _That damned Prophecy," Severus snapped, his desperation showing evident in that split-second. In that moment, Dumbledore knew that he had Severus in the palm of his hand. "He thinks it's her son. You have to hide her, hide them all."_

" _Ask your Master to spare her," Dumbledore challenged, knowing full well that Voldemort would never do so._

 _Snape glared at him, no doubt thinking the same thing. "What makes you think I'd be fool enough to trust his word? Especially with the life of a muggle-born witch?"_

" _You are his follower," Dumbledore answered simply, his face cold as though it had been carved of granite, not a single expression showing through. "Your left arm bears his mark."_

 _Severus barked out a laugh, humorless, brittle and bitter. "He sees my worth, and I wear his mark willingly. He has promised to try and spare her, but he does not understand the value I place on her life. He will not try very hard."_

 _And in that moment, Dumbledore knew how to end this encounter, how to sway Snape to his side completely and utterly, and bind him though as if there were chains. Lily. Lily had always been the chink in this prickly Slytherin's armor. He had always suspected that Severus harbored feelings for her still… but he had never suspected that they ran this deep. A small half-smirk curved across his lips. "And so you come to me."_

" _As I said, there was no one else."_

" _And you think I will save her?" Dumbledore said. He knew he'd taken the boy by surprise; the flicker of desperation in Severus's eyes was clear indication. Good. Keep the boy off-balance and guessing… Lily's protection wouldn't come free, and if he was reading Severus correctly…_

" _She is a member of your Sainted Order, one of your golden Gryffindors. You have to save her!" Severus cried, clearly at a loss of what to do. Had he expected Lily's salvation to come free? No, Dumbledore would never allow that… a golden opportunity was presenting itself, a chance subvert one of Tom's best and brightest._

 _Dumbledore sighed, shedding the persona of the kindly grandfather that never failed to put his allies at ease. Severus would see the man who truly lay beneath, and he would understand. "What will you give me in return, Severus?"_

 _He saw the flicker of realization in his eyes, and the helplessness that accompanied it. "Anything," Severus said heavily, dropping his eyes to the table. "For her life, I would give you anything."_

 _As quickly as it had gone, the grandfatherly persona returned. "Then expect my owl in two hours. We shall be seeing more of each other, Severus. Good day." He swept out of the room, rejoicing in what he had accomplished and already planning how he would make use of this valuable asset._

And what an asset Snape had been. A half-smile flitted across Dumbledore's face as he thought of all Severus had done throughout the years. The man's help had been invaluable in shaping Harry into the weapon he was to become. Even after his own death, he knew that Harry would follow the path set before him. Years of careful grooming and planning were coming to fruition; without Severus Snape, he would never have been able to set the final nail on Voldemort's coffin. Without Severus, he would have succumbed to the curse on the Gaunt ring far earlier than his plans permitted, and the "Greater Good" would have died with him. Yes, Severus was quite an asset.

 _Severus pushed open the door to the Headmaster's Office, a satchel slung over his shoulder. "What have you done, Albus?" he said tersely, striding to Dumbledore's side. Dumbledore silently held out his hand to him, his shrivelled, blackened hand._

 _As Severus began casting counters over it, poking and prodding with his wand, Dumbledore winced. "I fear I acted rashly, Severus. I… I came across an ancient artefact, a ring, in fact. It lay in an empty room, and I did not think anything of it—"_

" _Stop lying," Severus interrupted, never ceasing his examination of Dumbledore's blackened hand. "Albus, I need to know exactly what this curse was meant to do if I am to stop it."_

 _Ah, Severus had never been fooled by his flowery sentences. "I went to the Gaunt residence, and I found this ring," Dumbledore said, never taking his eyes off his hand. It would not do for Severus to know about this ring's connection to the Deathly Hallows. He already knew that Dumbledore had been poking around in Tom Riddle's past — Severus was a clever man and entirely capable of putting two and two together, Dumbledore would not insult him and think otherwise. "It was clearly a heirloom, and I put it on."_

 _Severus's wand shook, although from its user's shock or surprise Dumbledore was not certain. "Why were you there? What did you hope to find?" Severus hissed, swearing under his breath._

" _I am an old man, Severus, and old men are sometimes foolish," Dumbledore answered._

 _Severus snorted. "So you will tell me nothing. An inch from death, and you still will not trust me with the truth." He shoved a potions bottle towards him. "I wonder if you are even capable of speaking it anymore."_

 _Dumbledore lifted his hand, marvelling at how, even as blackened and shrivelled it was, the fingers still flexed when he commanded. "Severus," he began._

" _No. Do not 'Severus' me, like I am some child having a fit. This is your life, Albus. This curse will kill you. I have slowed it, but there is no way to stop it. You need to tell me."_

 _Severus did not know what he was asking. The truth… the truth was painful and dangerous. Those in possession of the truth bore the weight of the world on their shoulders. It was a burden he would wish on no one, even those who asked for it. It was best for all if only one dealt with the truth, and the rest were given scraps… instead of answering Severus's question, Dumbledore looked into his eyes. "Then you know what must be done."_

 _Severus took a step back. "You would ask me to murder you, destroy what little is left of my soul? Have I not done enough?" Spinning on his heel, he stalked to the other side of the room._

" _It must be done, Severus," Dumbledore said calmly, implacably. "And if it is not you, then the unfortunate burden falls upon the Malfoy scion. It would destroy him, and in extension, his parents. I am sure you remember Lucius?"_

 _He could see Severus's head drop in defeat at the mention of Lucius's name. "Do you care nothing for what it will do to me?" Severus said, his tone betraying that he already knew Dumbledore's response._

" _I know you will do what is right."_

 _Severus sighed. "One of these days, old man, I will do what is best for me and damn what is_ _ **right**_ _."_

" _Thank you, Severus," Dumbledore replied, knowing that Severus was far too honourable to do such a thing. "It is better to meet death at the hand of a dear friend than at that of an enemy."_

" _We are not friends."_

" _So you say," he said, pausing to once again admire the deathly beauty of his blackened hand. It was hard to believe that soon, he would be dead. But there was much he could accomplish; with luck, his death would not impact the Greater Good. He would work tirelessly to ensure that. "How long have I to live?"_

" _Perhaps a year, maybe less."_

 _A year would be sufficient. It would be difficult to die, and far more difficult to let go, but he trusted that his plans would continue working even after his death. "That is all the time I need."_

" _And all the time we have before the world falls apart," Severus said, his voice hopeless._

" _Harry shall succeed, do not doubt the boy," Dumbledore said in mild rebuke._

" _He is arrogant, petulant, unprepared, and untrained. He is not ready, not to defeat the Dark Lord!"_

 _Ah, Severus still confused Harry and James. How fortuitous. Severus would not seek to meddle, then, with the boy's fate. "He may be unprepared, but I know he can make the ultimate sacrifice."_

 _Severus spun. "What?" he hissed._

" _Neither can live while the other survives," Dumbledore quoted serenely. He sighed. "Within him, Harry carries a sliver of Voldemort's soul. To kill Voldemort, Harry must first die."_

 _Severus's eyes bulged. "All this time, you've been raising him like a pig for slaughter!"_

 _It appeared Severus did care for Harry, after all. Dumbledore did as well, but he could not allow it to influence his actions. "It is for the Greater Good," he explained patiently._

" _Hang the Greater Good!" Severus shouted. "He is a CHILD. Lily's child."_

" _He_ _ **is**_ _Lily's child." Severus had to understand. He could not risk him influencing Harry. "She would be proud, proud to see her son die to defeat Voldemort."_

" _Don't you_ _ **ever**_ _speak her name again, you know_ _ **nothing**_ _of what she wanted." Tears were streaming down Severus's cheeks. "I have given my whole life to protect him… and now you tell me that it is for nothing! How dare you?"_

 _Dumbledore sighed. "The strong do as they will; the weak suffer what they must. Severus, this was never my decision to make." He sighed again, casting his eyes to the ground. Then he looked up at Severus. "I am, however, surprised that you care so much for Harry."_

 _In response, Severus drew his wand and muttered,_ "Expecto Patronum." _From the tip of his wand burst a doe, who pranced about Dumbledore's office, filling it with her soft silver gleam. She looked at Dumbledore, her eyes liquid and trusting, then bounded away._

 _Touched, Dumbledore whispered, "After all this time?"_

" _Always," Severus said curtly, turning to leave. Dumbledore watched him go, his fears abated. Severus would never abandon Harry, not now. He would never betray the Light. With Severus on his side, Dumbledore's plans for Harry would succeed._

Now, he flew to his death. He had lived nearly an entire year, just as Severus had promised, and now he was ready for the next great adventure. Harry was ready as well, ready to face Voldemort and die for the Greater Good. With every piece in its proper place, he could finally rest. A small, sad smile came to his lips. Perhaps he would finally see his mother or father now. The thought spurred him onwards, making it easy to surrender himself to Severus's _Avada Kedavra_. He was vaguely aware of his body tumbling into empty space, but only vaguely so… then fog obscured his vision, and when it cleared, he found himself within a train station. King's Cross, to be exact. And in one corner of it sat his sister.

"Ariana?" he said, walking towards her. She was exactly as he remembered. It looked as if not a moment had passed since he had held her cold, limp body in his arms, although her eyes were far clearer than he remembered...

"Albus!" she said, jumping to her feet and giving him a hug. "I've been waiting a long time for you."

"I'm sorry." She really did seem unchanged, but her confidence and maturity was far beyond what he remembered. Although at the time, he had been far too busy plotting with Gellert to really pay too much attention to his younger siblings. "I hope it was not too dull."

"No, it wasn't," she said, taking a seat on the misty bench once again. "My train has waited patiently for me." She nodded to a gleaming white and gold engine in the distance. "It understands that I cannot leave yet."

Dumbledore smiled. "There is a train for everyone?"

"For everyone who has done right with their life," Ariana answered.

"Then my train should be here soon," Albus smiled confidently and sat down beside Ariana. "I've devoted my whole life to the Greater Good."

"But who's greater good?" Ariana said, fixing piercing eyes on him. "Gellert said he was working for the Greater Good. Tom Riddle believes he is working for the good of all."

Albus felt a strange sensation, one akin to… worry? "All I did, I did to protect the wizarding world. I don't know how to do anything else."

Ariana paused, head tilted and staring off into the distance as if watching something only she could see. "Huh, you weren't kidding that you don't know how to," she said sadly. "Was leaving that poor boy with his hateful relatives good for him, brother? What of the young Potions master? All those years you played with his guilt, was that for his own betterment?"

"It was, in the long run," Dumbledore answered. "Sometimes, short-term pain is necessary for long-term gain. Harry and Severus will win the War for the Light. They suffered, but they are better for it. I acted for their good, and the good of the world."

"Then I must say goodbye," Ariana got to her feet, a smile on her face. "Mother and father have already left the station. They must be missing me. When your train comes, join us. And if you see Aberforth before then… tell him to come, too. And be polite!"

"Of course, Ariana."

She smiled and waved at him as she walked into her train, which slowly pulled away from the station. Dumbledore watched it go, until at last it disappeared from sight. Then he sat back down on the bench and waited.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

He didn't know how long he waited. Countless trains pulled in and out of the station, and countless spirits stepped on and off… yet somehow, his train never came. Dumbledore did not allow that to worry him. He had done right in his life — going as far as sacrificing it for the Greater Good — and he knew he would be judged fairly. He had always been scrupulously honest with others, even Harry and Severus. His train would come. There had to be a reason why it hadn't come yet. Perhaps his delay served a purpose.

He felt vindicated when Harry materialized in the fog of King's Cross station. The boy had appeared, looked around, then walked to his side. "Professor Dumbledore!"

"Harry. It is good to see you again," Dumbledore said warmly. "How are you?"

What followed was a long conversation, in which Dumbledore reassured the boy and prepared him for the Final Battle. When Harry left, ready to face Voldemort for the final time, Dumbledore prayed he would succeed… then settled down, certain that now he had met Harry in the afterlife, his train would come. Even in death he served the Greater Good; now, he could go to his eternal rest. After all, he had done everything right...

But his train never came.


	35. The Basilisk

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** drabble

 **Prompt:** [Character] Your House's Founder.

 **Word Count:** 492

He had slept for aeons. He had lain silent, never moving, the cold stone rough against his scales. Time had slowed around him as he lay hidden within the Chamber of Secrets, waiting for his heirs to release him and so purge the castle of mudbloods. Yet his heirs never came. Until one day, when the stone rumbled beneath him, signalling that at long-last his Chamber was being opened. As he uncoiled himself, he flicked his forked tongue, tasting fresh air for the first time in centuries.

Then a young man strode into the Chamber. _Come,_ he hissed. _Kill._

Slithering to the pipes, he did just that, revelling in the freedom roaming the castle brought. Yet he had only killed one mudblood — one measly mudblood — before his heir ordered, _return to the Chamber_. _Sleep_.

With sigh, he did so. He slumbered in the Chamber, waiting, languishing in the dank darkness. And then his heir returned. He wore a different body, but the hiss which called him from his sleep was identical to the previous. He slithered to his heir's feet. Again, he roamed the castle, hoping to kill… but before he had managed to murder any mudbloods, he was told to _stay in the statue_.

He did so without protest. He was old, a relic from ages past. His heir knew what was best for him. And so when a small boy entered his Chamber and his heir ordered, _attack,_ he charged.

Yet the boy proved more difficult to kill than he had thought. The boy evaded his fangs, and he must have been keeping his eyes tightly shut, because the boy did not suddenly stiffen and crumple to the ground. Hissing in rage, he slithered forward, ready to end it… but then a sudden sharp, stinging pain burst from his eyes. Something — something was flying around his head, and it had punctured his eyes! Thrashing now, he roared with pain, throwing himself at the boy in a desperate attempt to kill him and end it all—

As his fangs sunk into the boy's arm, he felt the prick of goblin-made metal pierce the back of his throat. He recognized feeling; he had felt it before. The boy had plunged the sword of Gryffindor down his throat. The boy would die from the venom coursing through his body, but he didn't care anymore. He was going to die now, as well. How ironic it was, that he would die in this manner. Even now, aeons later, he could not escape Godric. Once there had been four founders, four friends: Rowena, the Eagle; Hufflepuff, the Badger; Gryffindor, the Lion; and Slytherin, the Snake. Godric had tried to kill him, stabbing him with the same sword as the boy had had, but Salazar retreated to his Chamber. But it had all been for naught, and even now, aeons later, Salazar Slytherin would still meet death at the hands of Godric's heir.


	36. Head Boy

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Short

 **Prompt:** [First Line] It was days like this where he/she/they really questioned his/her/their life choices.

 **Word Count:** 513

 **A/N:** Thank you for the beta, Lorax! 3

oO0Oo

It was days like this where he really questioned his life choices. Clearly he had done something terribly wrong. After all, in the palm of his hand there sat a badge: the Head Boy's badge. He, James Henry Potter, was _Head Boy_.

This couldn't be real.

Sirius had to be pranking him somehow. Remus or Atkins or Maurice were supposed to be Head Boy, not him! They would have relished the responsibility. They would have _enjoyed_ the late nights spent organizing Prefect schedules and going on patrol. But him? He was supposed to spend his last year at Hogwarts having _fun_ , not chasing after snotty first years and over-amorous fifth years.

He ran a finger over the smooth, embossed metal. Maybe this was all a prank. After all, Sirius hadn't come down to breakfast yet. He wouldn't put it past his friend to spend the entire night transfiguring a dead moth into the Head Boy's badge. But the badge sure felt real. Drawing his wand, James muttered, _Finite Incantatem_. To his disappointment, the badge didn't bubble or fade or even revert to its original form. It just sat there in his palm, its shiny metal glinting in the sunlight.

Sirius slouched into breakfast. "Why so glum?" he asked as he slid into his seat.

In reply, James held up the badge.

Sirius's eyebrows shot up. "Damn, Prongs. Congratulations."

"Padfoot, that's not funny." After placing the badge onto the table, James reached for the bacon before Sirius took it all.

"You pig!" Sirius cried, snatching the bacon from James and dumping it all onto his own plate.

Yet instead of stealing the eggs in retaliation like their morning routine dictated, James only sighed and said, "Sirius, give me some bacon."

Sirius warily put down the bacon. "Mate, are you okay?"

"Sirius, I'm Head Boy. I have to enforce rules. I have to be a boring and have a stick up my arse around the clock."

Sirius smirked. "But you do know who's going to be Head Girl, right? You and lovely Lily-kins, living together throughout the entire year…" He waggled his eyebrows at James.

James's eyes widened. "You're right," he said, leaning back in his chair, a cocky grin stretched across his face. "Tell me more."

"Well, Evans will arrive at Hogwarts thinking you're an utter prat, but then you'll start taking responsibility, and she'll realize you're not a complete toe-rag. She'll start coming to Quidditch matches and cheering for you."

"Then?"

"Then she'll notice how dashing I look in my Beater's robes and fall in love with me. We'll elope and have twenty kids, but we'll name two of them after you."

"You tosser," James laughed.

Sirius shrugged. "What can I say? I'm devastatingly handsome."

"Maybe to a hippogriff." James grinned. "But she won't be able to resist me." He took a swig of juice, his mind already full of plans for the coming year. He was Head Boy. Head Boy! And he was Quidditch Captain. Lily would fall for him now, he just knew it.

Somehow, he must have done something right.


	37. Luicissa

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** theme

 **Prompt:** [Speech] "Well, you are certainly nothing like your Mother."

 **Word Count:** 2009

 **A/N:** Thank you Daisy Duck and Lorax for your help!

oO0Oo

"I daren't ask," Narcissa said, wringing the hem of her dress robes. "I almost do not want to know with whom I shall be sitting."

Her elder sister smirked. "Really, Cissy, you cannot hide forever. One day, you will marry one of those men."

Narcissa pursed her lips. "I am well aware of that." She turned in the mirror, eyeing how her dark, silky hair cascaded down her back. "However, I wish mother were not so blatant in her attempts to marry me off to Rodolphus. I quite detest him." She sighed. "If I am placed beside him again, my wand may 'slip'. He is revolting."

"It may be simpler to feign sickness," Bellatrix replied. "Mother would certainly disprove if you were to curse him. He is your suitor."

"Don't remind me," Narcissa groaned, turning to glare at her older sister. "He's certainly not my type, though. He's almost ten years older than me!"

"That he is." Bellatrix smirked. "Yet he is perfect for me."

"Then you may have him. I certainly do not wish to touch him, even with—" A draught of cold air blew through the room, signalling that someone had opened the door. In the mirror, Narcissa spied her mother's most ornate dress robes. "Hello, mother."

"I was just coming to check up on you two. The dinner party begins in half an hour, and I want everything to be _perfect_. Including you." Druella glanced at her youngest daughter, her eyes lingering over her delicate form for a moment before she addressed her. "Narcissa, are you ready?"

Narcissa looked into the mirror one last time, taking in her black velvet dress robes which just hinted her figure. "I suppose I am as ready as I shall ever be," she answered.

"Good, then come with me." She turned to her other daughter. "You shall be seated next to Rodolphus, Bella. Do not disappoint me."

Bellatrix broke into a maniacal grin, her eyes glinting as she answered, "I won't."

"I do not doubt either of you. You are, after all, my only daughters," Druella said silkily.

Narcissa swallowed hard and concentrated intently on the mahogany floorboards, most definitely _not_ thinking about her missing older sister and the choices Andromeda had made. Andromeda had married for _love_. She hadn't let mother arrange some absurd marriage for her, even though she had had suitors from the best of families. No wonder she had been blasted from the tapestry.

Bellatrix must have noticed Narcissa's sudden silence. "Mother, whom have you placed besides Cissy?" she asked, cutting through the sudden tension that had engulfed the room.

"Lucius Malfoy," Druella answered shortly. "He wished to be placed beside her. Now we must be going. The guests will be here soon." She strode from the room, her two daughters following.

Narcissa glanced at her sister, but Bella ignored her, seeming inordinately pleased. Knowing Bellatrix, she would doubtlessly have slipped Rodolphus a love potion or at least have cast a subtle Imperio on the man before the canapes were finished. She sighed. At least her sister was happy. She, in turn, could be happy for Bellatrix's happiness. However, _she_ was to sit beside Lucius Malfoy. He was coldly polite, and she had heard that he was already engaged to Porphyria Parkinson. She shuddered at the thought. She would have to tolerate his conversation, even though it brought her nowhere. It was almost worse than Rodolphus.

The Blacks swept into the room. Already there was a crowd of people standing and sitting around on the various dark furniture and making idle small talk. Yet Druella made a beeline straight to where Rodolphus Lestrange stood, conversing in low tones with Tarquin Nott.

"Rodolphus," she said in way of greeting. "I am certain you remember my daughters, Bellatrix and Narcissa?"

Rodolphus's eyes glinted in a manner that was practically feral. "Of course," he leered, licking his lips.

Bellatrix smiled, baring her pearly white teeth. "Have you tried the smoked salmon on mustard-chive toasts? They are simply exquisite."

"I do not believe I have."

"Allow me," she said, the look in her eyes mirroring his as she deftly picked a canape off a passing. She held it to his lips, a wicked smirk on her face.

Rodolphus placed one hand around her wrist, steadying it. Then his tongue darted out to graze the palm of her hand before he swallowed the canape in one bite.

Narcissa looked away, her cheeks flushed. She could not believe how brazen Bellatrix was acting. Perhaps Rodolphus was closer to her sister's age, but that was no excuse for their behaviour. "I am cold," Narcissa said shortly. She did not dare stay. Bellatrix was acting erratically, but her tactics seemed to be working. "Mother, come with me." If Druella saw how successful her eldest daughter was, she would no doubt press her youngest into doing the same, and Narcissa refused to lower herself to that level.

Narcissa hurried away, dragging her mother behind her and making a beeline for the settee which sat before the roaring fireplace; however, before she could reach its safety, Druella called out, "Mister Malfoy! Why do you stand in the shadows? My Narcissa was just speaking of you!"

"Mother," Narcissa hissed, trying to wrench her arm out of her mother's grip. Yet Druella dug her nails into her daughter's arm, and so Narcissa stood there helplessly as Lucius Malfoy sauntered over.

"Good evening," he said.

"Good evening," Narcissa replied tightly, heartily wishing she were anywhere but there.

"How have you been?"

"She's been feeling rather cold," Druella interjected.

Narcissa's pale cheeks flushed deep red. "Mother!" she hissed.

"Then she should have worn a warmer cloak," Lucius said, seeming bemused.

"Ah, but there is a lovely settee by the fireplace."

Lucius held out his arm. "Then I shall have to accompany the lady to this wondrous settee."

Narcissa took his arm, clutching onto it like a lifeline saving her from the ocean of embarrassment that was her mother.

A few moments later, she sunk into the settee, no longer caring if she appeared graceful or ladylike to her supposed suitor. It was only ten o'clock, and her feet already hurt. Perhaps Andy had a spare bedroom she could use. Fighting the urge to rub away the dark makeup on her eyes, Narcissa surveyed the room when she noticed Rodolphus and Bellatrix in a dark corner. Her interest captured, she focused on the couple when she noticed Rodolphus's wand levelled at her sister's neck. Alarmed, she gripped her wand, trying to think of something, anything, that could save her sister; then she noticed Bellatrix was laughing, her deep violet eyes shining maniacally as Rodolphus whispered what were surely death threats into her ear.

Narcissa sunk her head into her hands. "Bloody hell," she muttered.

Lucius coughed gently, and Narcissa cursed her slip. "Do you not approve of your sister's match?" he enquired. "The Lestranges are certainly well connected, and their pure heritage is beyond reproach."

"But their sanity is not," Narcissa whispered under her breath.

Lucius laughed heartily. "Well, you are certainly nothing like your Mother."

Narcissa raised one eyebrow. "Is that meant to be a compliment?" she asked.

Lucius paused, choosing his words with care. "It is merely an observation."

"Then I shall make an observation as well." Narcissa looked up at him, realizing that from where she was sitting, the dark, sunken bags beneath his eyes stood in stark relief. He must have cast a glamour over them; however, up close, the charm was easy to see through. "After your mother's death, your father has been relentless. I heard that you have… given in. I have heard that you… pledged yourself."

He smiled mirthlessly. "You would be correct in that. I am my father's son, after all."

"You are nothing like your Father. For one, I assume you are opposed to marrying Porphyria, no matter the political benefits." She raised her hand to silence him as he opened his mouth to protest. "You would not have given me so much as the time of day had you had the slightest interest in that harpy."

A shadow of a frown swept across his face before it broke out into a smile. "You are, of course, correct," Lucius said. "It would seem we have more than our repulsion for insanity in common."

"Great minds think alike, you know," she said softly, leaning closer to him until mere inches separated them.

Seemingly thrown off by her forwardness, Lucius gulped. "Uh - yes."

"I am a woman who knows what she want. I am not my sister, and if I am mistaken in my assumptions, then I shall not pursue you further, but I believe only a fool could deny what a fortuitous opportunity this could be for the both of us: I avoid whatever fool Mother picks for me next, and you will escape Parkinson's clutches. What say you, Lucius?"

Lucius's face broke into another slow smile. "I am no fool, Narcissa."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

After the dinner party, Narcissa went to her mother's drawing room. She rapped on the door.

"Who is it?" Her mother's voice carried through the heavy oak door.

"Narcissa," she answered, shifting her weight from foot to foot. She had momentous news, but she was uncertain how her mother would take it… but she had to tell her.

"What is it?"

"May I come in?"

"You may, the door is unlocked."

Narcissa opened the door and slipped inside. "Mother, Lucius Malfoy has asked my hand in marriage."

Druella spun. "He did _what_?"

"He asked my hand in marriage."

"That is marvellous!" Druella got to her feet and embraced her youngest daughter. When she pulled back, she said, "The Malfoys are a new family and seek the veneer of respectability which only marrying into an Ancient and Noble House can provide. Meanwhile, Lucius Malfoy's Galleons will certainly help keep the House of Black as noble as it has always been." She smiled at Narcissa. "I am proud of you, Narcissa."

"Thank you," Narcissa said, ducking her head, a faint blush on her cheeks. She had not expected her mother to be so… common in her assessment of Lucius Malfoy. A Gringotts vault was not all that mattered; if it were, there were certainly better ways to earn money.

"I must tell your father, he will be ecstatic to stop worrying about the finances and upkeep of the House of Black, he must know immediately—" Druella pressed her daughter's hands. "I must go, Narcissa, but you tell your sister. I'm sure Bellatrix would love to know."

"Oh, okay." Druella hurried from the room, leaving Narcissa standing there alone.

After staring at her mother's room for a second, Narcissa gathered herself and slowly walked towards Bellatrix's rooms. She told Bellatrix the news, but to her surprise, Bella didn't even blink; instead, she only smirked and said, "With two Dark sisters, the House of Black will surely benefit from the new order."

Unsure what her sister meant, Narcissa had only smiled weakly and excused herself. She returned to her own room and lay on her bed… so far, everyone seemed happy for her impending marriage, but she wanted to know what the last member of her family thought. Sitting up, she summoned a quill and parchment and set about writing a letter. When she was finished, she wrote _To Andromeda,_ on the envelope's exterior and attached it to the owl's leg.

The next morning, she received an owl in return.

 _Congratulations! Mother and Father must be so pleased. Though the pretentious world of pureblood princesses was not for me, I do wish you all the happiness you can draw from it._

 _All of my love. Andromeda._

Narcissa smiled as she read the letter. She had managed to please everybody in her family with her choice of husband — even herself. For once, the future did not seem so dull. After all, she may not love Lucius, but it was possible that she could, and that was all one could ever hope for, was it not?


	38. Romione Fluff

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Theme

 **Prompt:** [Speech] "Why are there letters? You told me math was all about numbers."

 **Word count:** 2159

 **A/N:** This is a slight AU. I changed Rose and Hugo's relative ages, so just a heads up :)

oO0Oo

"Mum?" Rose's voice carried throughout the house. "Can you come here please?"

Ron sighed. He had just sat down to polish his Cleansweep. "Mum's not here," he called back. "What is it, Rose?"

"I need help," Rose shouted back.

"With what?"

"It's maths!"

"Fine," Ron said with a groan, getting to his feet. "Where are you?"

"In my room."

That was surprising. Normally, she did homework in the kitchen, saying it was more "happy" in there; however, when Ron passed the kitchen, he quickly understood why Rose had decided to relocate. Hugo must have decided to explore the pantry today. Flour filled the air, and the floor was strewn with shards of broken glass. Frowning at the sight, Ron hurried on. He'd clean that up later, before 'Mione got back from work. After all, helping Rose couldn't take that long.

He knocked on Rose's room. "May I come in?"

"Of course, Daddy," she answered, turning around in her swivel chair to smile at him.

Ron smiled. "Now, what is it you needed help on?" he asked, trying to peek over her shoulder.

"It's muggle maths." She held up the piece of paper, and Ron's eyes swum. It was covered in meticulous calculations. "Mum said I needed to learn algebra before I took Arithmancy, but I don't get it!"

"I'll try to help." Ron magicked a chair into existence, then sat down beside his daughter. "So, what is it you don't understand?"

Rose frowned, then pointed her quill at a particularly messy portion of the paper. "Well, why are there letters? You told me math was all about numbers."

Ron sighed heavily, desperately wracking his brain for anything Hermione might have said regarding Arithmancy. "Umm… in maths, there's this thing called 'variables'."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, and these variables are letters." Ron grinned, proud to have remembered anything.

"But what do variables do?" Rose asked, her brow furrowed in concentration. "And why would I use them?"

"Um, I think— I think— I think you should ask your mother. Now, I should go clean up Hugo's mess." Ron got to his feet; however, before he had taken a step, Rose's frantic stream of words made him stop.

"But Dad! I was supposed to have finished this yesterday but I went playing Quidditch with Albus and mum told me that I had to have this done by now _or else_ , and she used that tone where she means that she'll lecture me if I don't and you _know_ how long her lectures are!" She looked up at him with desperate eyes. "And Hugo's mess in the kitchen is sort of my fault… I showed him how to open the child-proof cabinets because he wouldn't leave me alone when I was doing my homework."

Ron blinked. "Say that again," he said, sitting back down in his conjured chair.

"I need to have this done before mum gets home. And Hugo's mess is my fault."

"Okay. Let's deal with your maths problem first. Do you have any books?"

"Dad, I already tried those before I asked you for help."

"I see how it is," Ron laughed. "But seriously?"

"Yeah, there was nothing. You were my last hope, Dad."

"Well, that's unacceptable," Ron said. "You need help from someone better at maths than me… how about we Floo-call Uncle Percy? He got an O in Arithmancy."

"He did?"

"Yeah, he spent that entire year studying, though, so it wasn't a surprise. You'd better not do that, Rosie, or I'll make Albus throw you into the Great Lake so you can get some exercise."

"Very funny," Rose said dryly. She gathered her papers and pens, then smiled up at Ron. "Can we Floo Uncle Percy now? Mum should be home soon."

"Hopefully, she takes her time at the office," Ron replied with a wink. "After all, you've still got that homework, and I've got to clean up the mess Hugo made. Now, come on." He took Rose's hand and led her to the study. There, he lit a fire in the grate and tossed a pinch of Floo-Powder inside. As the flames turned a deep emerald green, he shouted, "Percy's Apartment!"

"Who is it?"

Ron grinned at Rose. "Do you recognize Uncle Percy's voice? It always sounds rather grumpy."

"Very funny, Ron." Percy's head had appeared in the fireplace. "You're lucky, you know. I was just about to leave the apartment."

"You got a date?" Ron asked.

"Perhaps," his brother answered. "But why are you calling?"

"Rosie has a question for you," Ron said, pushing Rose forward. "And this time, it's not about your love life."

"What is it, Rose?" Percy asked, his voice gentler than when he had been speaking with Ron.

"I've got a question about this muggle maths called algebra," Rose said, showing Percy her sheaf of papers. "I solved the equations, but then suddenly there were these letters in the equation! How am I supposed to solve 2x = y and y = x + 1? It's impossible!"

"Oh, I recall that unit. Not that I am currently dealing with maths, not in my job at the Ministry, but I vaguely remember Professor Vector saying to find one of the variables in term of the other and then plug that it into the other equation—"

"Percy, are you coming?" From the emerald flames came a voice, a male voice which Ron could almost place. "If you don't hurry up, we're going to be late for our reservation!"

"Oh ho!" Ron chortled, rubbing his hands together. "You got a boyfriend, Perce?"

If it were possible for a green head to blush, Percy did so. "He's just a friend—"

"Right." Ron grinned. "Wait 'til I tell Ginny, she'll be over the moon. Always going on and on about you needing to be happy—"

"Okay, that's it. We're not missing this dinner." A hand reached into the flames and yanked Percy back. "Tell Potter I said hi, Ron."

"How do you know Harry?"

"I was his first captain. Cheers, Ron." With that, the flames returned to their usual orange and crackled peacefully in the grate.

Ron turned to Rose, grinning from ear to ear. "Can you believe it?" he said. "Percy has a boyfriend, and it's _Oliver Wood_."

Rose rolled her eyes. "That's great dad, I'll have _another_ uncle, but I need to finish my maths homework!" She held up the bedraggled sheet of paper. "Mum'll be home any second, and I didn't get Uncle Percy's explanation at all."

Ron frowned. "That is a problem. Here, I think I remember what he said." He led her to the study's desk, where Hermione usually worked. "Uncle Percy said to get one variable in teams with the other ones and to solve that way."

"How do I put a variable into a team?"

Ron shrugged. "Maybe your maths books have an answer?"

"Maybe," Rose replied, her shoulders sagging a little. "I'll be up in my room if anybody needs me. But if mum asks, tell her I'm sitting under the big oak tree doing my work there."

"Okay. Good luck, Rosie. I know you can do it." Ron squeezed her shoulder in silent support.

"Thanks, Dad," she said with a small smile. Then she trudged up to her room, letting the door slowly shut behind her.

Ron watched her go, trying his best to delay the inevitable… but when the door swung shut behind Rose, he knew it was time to tackle his next task. He had to clean the kitchen. Hypothetically, a few well-placed household spells would do the trick; however, when Hugo was involved, anything was possible. Ron grimaced. While he was glad his son's accidental magic had manifested so young, it was ridiculously strong and to be honest, a pain at times.

Before he stepped into the kitchen, Ron braced himself. He didn't know what Hugo could have done, but the toddler's imagination was sometimes terrifying. Perhaps he should call Ginny for help… after a few seconds, he discarded that idea. Ginny had young children of her own; she would only laugh at him. He would have to call someone else… hurrying back to the study, he threw a pinch of Floo Powder into the fireplace and shouted, "the Burrow!" Then he knelt on the stone and stuck his head into the flames.

He looked out into the Burrow, which looked unchanged, save for its cleanliness. When he had lived there, it had never been clean. "Mum?" he called, looking out into the house. "Mum, are you there?"

No one answered. The house was silent.

With a sigh, Ron stepped through the fireplace. He found himself within the Burrow now, and after brushing the ash from his clothing, Ron made his way towards the gardens. Perhaps his mum and dad were there, de-gnoming.

And they were. "Mum?" Ron called.

She turned. "Ron!" she shouted, her entire face lighting up. "Arthur, look who's come to visit! Did you bring the children, Ronald?"

"No," Ron replied, grinning a little shamefacedly. "And actually, I'm here to ask for help."

"Hugo again?" she asked.

"Yup."

"Well, while we're walking back to the house you can tell me all about his latest fiasco. Arthur, how about we finish the de-gnoming tomorrow?"

"Sounds great, Molly." His dad slowly got to his feet, grimacing a little and placing a hand over his lower back.

"Are you okay?" Ron asked, taking his father's arm and helping him to his feet.

"I'll be fine. It's just called getting old."

"And still fiddling with that muggle junk," Molly called back. "Now come on. I want to see my grandchildren again."

Ron chuckled. "Coming, mum. We'll Floo home. Why don't you stay for dinner?"

Molly looked at Ron suspiciously. "Who's cooking?"

"Well, Hermione's not, and I haven't started yet, since Hugo's been destroying the kitchen… we're probably going to order some of that muggle take-out that Hermione's so fond of. How does Indian food sound?"

"I guess, although there really is nothing like home cooking." Molly took a pinch of Floo Powder and shouted, "The Granger-Weasleys!" The flames turned green and she stepped through; Ron and Arthur did the same.

When they emerged in Ron's home, then entire house was beginning to smell of… chocolate. "Goodness," Molly said, hurrying toward the kitchen. "I swear that Hugo's accidental magic is stronger every time I visit!"

Ron chuckled. "That's possible, but I'm pretty sure he's not getting stronger. Just more creative." He shuddered.

His dad placed a hand on his back. "It'll be okay, son. Fred and George were the same way. You just might have a prankster in the family."

Ron groaned. "As if there weren't already enough. Well, what should I do, mum?"

Molly turned to him, her expression grave. "We should wait for Hermione to get home. She would probably want to do this herself… she has certainly had the most experience in navigating dangerous situations. I don't know what Hugo has done, but it looks like a minefield in there."

Swallowing hard, Ron peered around his mother. The sight which met his eyes was astounding. The kitchen was a haze of red and yellow beams of light, interspersed with floating green spheres of strange, pulsating energy, and in the center of the kitchen sat Hugo, within the petals of a beautiful golden lightning bolt. "What has he _done_?"

"I have no idea," Molly replied, shaking her head. "But Hermione is the best for this job."

Ron nodded. "Definitely. But if she has to do this right after coming home from a grueling day at work, she won't be happy." He turned towards the stairs. "Rosie!"

"Yeah, dad?"

"Get the telephone and call that Indian food place. Order mum's favorite dishes and get enough for six people."

"Ooh, who's visiting?"

"Your Grandma and Grandpa Weasley," Ron called back. "Now hurry up, mum should be home any minute now!"

"Okay, on it!"

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Half an hour later, Hermione walked into the house, her feet aching after a long day at the Ministry and wanting nothing more than to sink into her armchair and cozy up with a good book. But as soon as she saw Ron, Rose, Molly, and Arthur sitting cross-legged on the floor, talking in low tones and eating Indian food, she knew her dreams for a calm evening would never become reality. "What is it now?" she said with a sigh.

"Hermione!" Ron rose and kissed her cheek. "It's so good to see you."

"Ron, what happened."

"Hugo," he said simply. "And Rose didn't finish her maths homework, but the kitchen is the biggest problem right now. Also, have some Indian food." He shoved a plate heaped with biryani into her hands.

Hermione looked from the biryani to her husband to Rose to her husband again. Gods, she loved him. "Thanks, Ron," she laughed, giving him a hug. "Let me get changed, eat some biryani, and then I'll look at what Hugo has gotten himself into this time."


	39. The Wind is Rising

House: Slytherin

Category: Short

Prompt: [Weather] Windy

Word Count: 591

oO0Oo

James had just landed, his knees buckling a little at the impact, when he heard someone say his name.

"Potter."

Looking around, he just barely made out the form of Severus Snape standing before him in the shadows. "What do you want, Snivellus?" he said, fingering his wand and holding his broom tight with his other hand. Night was falling, and they stood at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

"Take care of Lily," the Slytherin said, his voice tight and controlled.

James paused. "Is this some trick?"

"No, it's not." In the light of the setting sun, James could see his eyes were glinting with emotion. Strangely enough, he seemed sincere. "Potter, you're an arrogant toerag who doesn't deserve her, but keep her safe."

"Why?"

"Because she deserves as much," Snape answered.

"But why are you asking me. You hate me, Snape. And it's not like you're her friend anymore."

Snape took a step closer, prompting James to draw his wand; however, the Slytherin didn't attack. Instead, Severus only looked at him, and James thought he saw infinite sadness in those bleak black eyes. "The wind rises," Snape said simply. "We must try to live."

"Umm.. what do you mean?" James said, giving him a strange look.

"The winds of change are blowing, Potter, and I've chosen my side. Or, more accurately, I had it chosen for me the moment Dumbledore put that damned hat on my head." Severus scowled. "Just keep Lily safe."

James took a closer look at the Slytherin standing before him, and in a sudden flash of clarity, he thought he finally understood. In his own roundabout way, was Severus Snape apologizing for what he had done? By begging him to keep Lily safe, was he admitting that he could no longer do so himself?

"You know, you can always join us," James said. He hated Snape, but now, he also felt a deep, grudging respect for the Slytherin.

Snape gave a sardonic smile. "You know what I've done, Potter. I dreamt of glory, so I flew too close to the sun. Now, my wings are melting and the wind is whistling in my ears as I plummet to the ground, but it is far too late to save me."

Unsure how to respond to Snape's speech, James began to lower his wand, torn between patting the Slytherin on the back and leaving him in silence… then Snape bent his head and whispered, "Forgive me, Lily. I will do what it takes to survive." Before James had time to process what was happening, Snape struck. He cast curse after vicious curse, but after taking two to the midriff — one of them felt like a bone-breaking curse, and James hadn't recognized that other flash of magenta light — James jumped onto his broom and soared off into the night sky. The wind whipped around him, plucking at his robes and trying to pull him back down to the ground where Snape remained, firing curses into the darkness.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, James hung doggedly onto his broom, refusing to pass out. As the metallic tang of blood filled his mouth, Snape's words echoed in his ears. The wind is rising. The war is beginning. He would do what it took to survive.

James grimaced. We will all do what it takes, he thought. Whether we like it or not, we're all part of the brewing war. The wind is rising.

We must try to live.


	40. Bellatrix's Dagger

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Drabble

 **Prompt:** [Word] Sword/Dagger

 **Word Count:** 496

o0O0o

"This is for you."

Hermione turned, her smile fading when she saw Narcissa Malfoy standing beside her. "What do you want?" the younger witch sighed, steeling herself for yet another quasi-repentant Death Eater sympathiser trying to escape time in Azkaban by cozying up with one of the Golden Trio.

"I want to give you this." Narcissa held out a small box, no longer than a wand and no wider than a hand. Yet its contents nevertheless set Hermione on edge.

"Don't," she whispered, knowing that she had gone white as a sheet. She backed away from Narcissa, her voice trembling as she struggled to stay calm. She knew what was inside there. She could feel its malign presence seeping out, out of the box and into her… at the thought, she shuddered and took another step back. "Don't— don't give me this— why are you giving me this—"

"So that you remember," Narcissa said simply. After placing the small box squarely into Hermione's hands, she took a step back and regarded the young witch with clear eyes. "You are fighting for change in our world, Hermione, and it shall be no easier than your fight against the Dark Lord."

"Then why do I need this?" Hermione's eyes flickered down at the box, and she swallowed convulsively.

"Because no matter how hopeless it is, no matter how painful it is, there is _always_ something worth fighting for. I know you are pushing for creature rights and homes for abused Wizarding children, and I wholeheartedly approve. Fight so that no one _ever_ has to go through what you did again. Let the dagger remind you of the horrors of the war, so that you never give up."

Hermione nodded, blinking back the tears forming in the corners of her eyes. The woman before her seemed too sincere not to understand… Suddenly, she knew what Narcissa Malfoy must have gone through. She had fought against Voldemort as well, in her own, limited ways, and now, by giving Hermione the dagger, she was fighting to make sure no monster _ever_ threatened the Wizarding World again.

"I will," Hermione said softly. "No one should _ever_ be forced to kill innocents. No one should ever be forced to fight and plot assassinations. No one should ever be fucking tortured on marble floors, and have slurs carved into their arms."

Narcissa nodded slightly. "Then you understand why I give you my sister's cursed dagger."

"I do." Hermione tucked the small box into her robes. "Thank you, Lady Malfoy."

"Thank _you_ , Hermione. The Malfoys shall support your proposals in Wizengamot." Then, as quietly as she'd come, Narcissa left, leaving Hermione alone at the Ministry function, the cursed dagger in her hand. The words, "I expect great things from you, Hermione," lingered in the air behind her.

Hermione watched her go. Then, when Narcissa had finally disappeared from sight, she turned back to the Greengrasses and began explaining why werewolves deserved the right to work.


	41. Snape Understands

**House.** Slytherin.

 **Category.** Theme.

 **Prompt.** [First Line] He was older than she'd thought he would be.

 **Word Count.** 3040.

 **A/N.** This is an AU piece. Also, warning for child-abuse. Certain characters may seem OOC because, as I said, this is an AU.

oO0Oo

He was older than she thought he'd be. Harry Potter was only a first year, yet the way he looked at her with those weary eyes made it abundantly clear that this boy had seen much more of the world than any eleven year old had right to see. If she were being brutally honest, he looked more tired than many adults she knew.

"Are you okay?" she asked, running her eyes over his skinny frame. He was far too thin for a child his age, and his left forearm didn't seem quite straight.

"I'm fine, ma'am," he answered quietly, shifting a little under her gaze. He was obviously uncomfortable at her close scrutiny. "May I go now?"

"I suppose you may," she sighed, handing him back his robes. "Here you are, Mister Potter. Please take better care of yourself in the future."

He smiled wanly, accepting his robes in silence. Poppy turned away and busied herself tidying up the Hospital Wing to give the boy the semblance of privacy, and when the curtain around his bed finally pulled away and he began to leave, she called after him, "Mister Potter, please wait."

The boy turned, and Poppy thought she was fear in his emerald green eyes.

"Don't worry," she said. "I won't hurt you."

He nodded slowly, but his movements were hesitant.

Poppy took a deep breath. Earlier, she had dismissed it as Quidditch injuries, but now she was having second thoughts, and she could not allow any student under her care to come to harm, whether at school or at home. "Mister Potter," she began, "the bruises on your stomach. How did you get them?"

He swallowed hard, shock flitting across his face for a split-second. Then he answered calmly, "I fell on one of the trick staircases."

"I see." Poppy took another deep breath. "Have a good day, Mister Potter."

"You too, Madam Pomfrey." With that, he left, silently shutting the door to the Hospital Wing behind him.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"What are you saying?" Albus looked at Poppy, unwilling to believe what she was telling him. Harry had been… abused? He had known there existed enmity between Petunia and Lily, but he could not believe Petunia Dursley would stoop this low… "I'm sorry Poppy, I can't believe this."

"Albus," Poppy said, her expression entirely serious. "Something is wrong with Harry Potter. I can feel it in my bones. I am going to be running tests on the boy tomorrow evening, and as his magical guardian, I want you to be there."

"Poppy—"

"No. Don't say 'Poppy' and just expect me to back down. Albus, something is _very_ wrong, and I will find out what."

Albus sighed. "Tomorrow night it is, then. We shall do it at eight o'clock."

"I'll see you then," Poppy replied. "As his Head of House, Minerva will be there as well. Good night, Albus."

"Good night, Poppy." Albus watched her leave, hoping that for once, the Mediwitch's instincts were wrong. But, when had they ever been?

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Harry walked into the Hospital Wing, following the instructions he had received from Professor McGonagall after Transfiguration. Apparently Madam Pomfrey wanted to talk to him again. However, when he stepped in and saw his Headmaster, his Head of House, and the Mediwitch standing in a rough semi-circle and talking in low tones, he realized this 'check-up' was far more than he'd suspected.

He was just about to turn around and sneak away when Dumbledore spotted him and said, his blue eyes twinkling, "Ah, Harry. Please have a seat."

Caught, Harry grudgingly sat down on a nearby cot.

"Now, Mister Potter." It was Professor McGonagall speaking, and Harry looked up at her. "Madam Pomfrey is going to run a few tests, then ask you a couple of questions. Understood?"

Harry looked from her to Dumbledore to Madam Pomfrey. All three of them wore grave expressions. "I— I guess," he answered, looking down to stare at his hands.

"Good." The Mediwitch bustled over, taking out her wand as well as a few strange silvery objects which Harry only saw out of the corner of his vision. "This will only take a second, Mister Potter."

Harry nodded mutely. She pointed her wand at him, muttered a few words, then passed the silvery objects around his body before scribbling something down on a clipboard. He watched her carefully as she did so, and so he saw how her lips pursed as she read the results, and how, when she finished, she looked at him with worry in her eyes.

"Mister Potter… do you feel safe at home?"

Panic bubbled up within Harry. She— they— they couldn't know. "I am safe," he answered carefully. "I'm safe when I'm at home." When I'm at home, I can't hurt anyone. When I'm locked away in my cupboard, I'm safe. The world is safe from me.

Professor McGonagall peered over Madam Pomfrey's shoulder, and Harry watched her face go white as a sheet. She swallowed hard. "I think what Madam Pomfrey means to say, Harry," her Scottish burr all but vanished, "is do your aunt and uncle treat you well."

"They do," Harry answered, fidgeting on the hospital cot as he answered, unable to meet either of the women's gazes. "They treat me better than I deserve."

"How do they treat you?" Madam Pomfrey asked.

"Well…" Harry twisted the hem of his robes. "They make me do a lot of chores."

"What do you do?"

"Just some stuff around the house," he answered with a shrug.

"Like what?"

"I mow the lawn. I also weed garden, cook breakfast, wash dishes, dust, and vacuum."

Professor McGonagall blinked. "That is a lot, Mister Potter."

"They took me in. No one else wanted me. I don't do that much, Professor."

"I beg differ." For the first time since the entire ordeal had begun, Dumbledore spoke. "What you describe, Mister Potter… that is the work of a House Elf, not a child. Does your cousin work so much?"

For a second, Harry let his feigned indifference slip. "No, he doesn't," he said with a scowl. "Dudley doesn't do anything and he gets _everything_."

Dumbledore's eyes widened a fraction of a centimeter. "What do you mean, Dudley gets everything?"

"Dudley gets everything," Harry spat, no longer caring if they found out. The sheer injustice of it all still cut deep, still festered deep within him — he might be a freak, but that did _not_ mean that Dudley deserved it all. "Dudley gets _everything_ , and I get _nothing_."

"You get… nothing?"

"I get whatever Dudley doesn't want." Tears were beginning to well now in the corner of Harry's eyes, but he was beyond caring. "Which is almost nothing, because Dudley is a _fat pig_ who takes everything just so I can't have it. If I want bacon, then Dudley will eat the entire pan. If I want a piece of bread, he'll pitch a fit until Aunt Petunia promises to save him two entire loaves. And if he wants to go 'Harry-hunting', Uncle Vernon gives him a cane and tells me not to run too hard, or I'll be locked in my cupboard. I'm a _freak!_ "

Harry finished his rant panting, tears now streaming freely down his cheeks as he struggled to catch his breath. When he finally took a deep breath and wiped his eyes with his sleeves, silence met him. The room was entirely silent, and Headmaster Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, and Madam Pomfrey only stared at him.

It was Dumbledore who broke the silence. "It seems you were correct, Poppy," he said, his voice sorrowful.

"And how I wish I were not," Madam Pomfrey replied. She sighed. "His family did a lot of damage. I'm going to need Severus's help for the potions, and I think mental support will be necessary as well. Mister Potter, are you free on Wednesday evenings?"

But Harry sat frozen, uncertain what had just happened. Had he— had he— he _had_. Jumping to his feet, he raced to the door. It was locked, but when he glared at it, angry that it dared stand in his way, it shuddered, then crumpled. Harry jumped over its remains, then sprinted away from the Hospital Wing.

What had he _done_?

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Poppy, you want me to brew _these_ potions?" Severus looked down at the list again, just in case his eyes were deceiving him. "These are only for the most serious cases."

"I know," she answered. "Severus, you know I wouldn't ask this of you unless it were absolutely necessary."

"Yes, I know." Poppy Pomfrey had only helped him. When he came back from summer vacations, he always made a point to visit her, and she would erase the marks his Father had carved into his skin. When James Potter and his gang attacked him, she would cast the counter charms and teach him healing spells. Even when he injured himself trying to earn the Dark Lord's favor, she would silently mend his wounds. "Poppy, who is it? I hope it is none of my Slytherins."

"It's not," she said. "Now, I can't tell you more than that."

Severus sighed. "I understand. I'll have the potions finished by tomorrow."

"Thank you, Severus."

"Anything for you." Then Severus turned to his cauldron and began chopping the sprigs of fluxweed the first potion required. "Good night, Poppy."

"Good night, Severus."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

When Harry received a note from Madam Pomfrey telling him to come to the Hospital Wing that evening, he considered not going. He knew it would be futile to resist, yet some part of him wanted to avoid the mediwitch, McGonagall, and Dumbledore for the rest of his life. And so he instead of going up to the Hospital Wing like the note asked, he spent that evening sitting hidden in the one-eyed witch's alcove.

The next day, he received another note from Madam Pomfrey. This time, he didn't even read it before crumpling it into a ball and shoving it into the bottom of his bookbag. When some Ravenclaw came into Charms and asked for a 'Harry Potter' for Madam Pomfrey, he trudged after her, trying his best to delay the inevitable.

"Mister Potter," Madam Pomfrey said when he walked in. "Please, take a seat." She gestured to a large, comfortable-looking armchair that sat by the window. "I'll be with you in a minute."

Harry took a seat, casting a surreptitious look around him as he did so. When Madam Pomfrey returned and sat down in an identical chair across from him, he said, "Why am I here?"

"I think you know why," she answered. "You've had a terrible childhood, Harry, and you are a very brave boy to have survived it." She placed one hand on Harry's wrist. "If you ever feel the need to talk with someone, I'm here for you."

Harry frowned, pointedly pulling away from her. "I don't need to talk to anyone," he said. "And I'm not brave."

"Harry, you are _very_ brave."

"No, I'm not."

Madam Pomfrey sighed. "We'll talk more about this later. Here are the potions Professor Snape brewed for you. They're to help with your nutrition. You didn't get at all enough to eat. You're to drink one when you wake up every morning."

Harry looked suspiciously at the various bottles she placed in front of him. "How do I know they're not poisoned?" he asked.

"Professor Snape would never do that. Your aunt and uncle may have, but try to forget them, Harry. These potions will make you grow tall and strong." She conjured a bag for the vials, then passed it to Harry. "Remember, drink one of these every morning right after you wake up. Also, don't ignore the notes I send you. These meetings are for your own good, Harry. You have to learn that your childhood wasn't normal, and that you aren't a freak. I'll see you next week?"

"Yeah," Harry mumbled, slinging the bag over his shoulder and hurrying away from the Hospital Wing without even saying goodbye.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Honestly Minerva, I don't understand," Poppy said. "He just doesn't want to talk, and it feels like everything I'm telling him is going in one ear and out the other! It's been nearly two months, and I haven't made any progress whatsoever."

"In classes, he is as withdrawn as always," Minerva replied. "Poppy, he also doesn't seem to be gaining any weight."

"I know. I've tried talking to him about it, asking him if he's been drinking those potions Severus has been so good to brew for him, but he never gives me a straight answer, or worse, he smiles at me and says, 'what do you think?'" Poppy sighed. "I know he's not drinking those potions, but I just don't know how to convince him that he _needs_ to. Doesn't he want to get better?"

"I would not be too certain." Out of the shadows stepped Severus Snape. "I am sorry for eavesdropping Poppy, Minerva, but I could not help but overhear your dilemma. Perhaps it would be best if I spoke with the boy? I know you mean well, Poppy, but there is something to be said for first-hand experience."

"I'm not certain if that would be wise…" Poppy began.

"Nonsense," Minerva interrupted. "He is right, Poppy. I trust you can act like an adult, Severus?"

"Of course I can."

"Then come along. I believe Poppy's next session with the boy is in twenty minutes. We must get to the Hospital Wing."

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

Harry entered the Hospital Wing with his customary scowl. He hated these sessions with Madam Pomfrey. She meant well, but she treated him as though he were a child, or a pet, incapable of thinking for himself. She treated him like a fragile glass vase, one which might shatter at any moment if she said the wrong word. It irritated him, and he couldn't wait to finally finish these unbearable sessions.

"Well well well, Mister Potter. What a _pleasant_ surprise."

Harry started, his eyes going wide when he saw Professor _Snape_ sitting in Madam Pomfrey's chair. "Why are you here?" he snapped.

"I shall ignore your atrocious manners for now, Potter, but do remember that I am your Professor." He sighed. "Madam Pomfrey felt she wasn't getting through to you, so she asked me to help."

Harry eyed Snape warily. "Sir, why would she ask _you_?" Professor Snape hated him, and he lacked Madam Pomfrey's Mediwitch credentials. "Why would she _tell_ you?"

"I've been brewing your potions since this whole fiasco began, Potter. And now I am here to talk with you."

"Really?" Harry looked at Snape, unsure whether or not to believe the man. "But why, sir?"

"Let us simply say that I understand your situation, and I understand why Madam Pomfrey's attempts to help you, no matter how well-meaning, are not working." Snape tented his fingers, peering over them to look at Harry. "She treats you like a confused child, but you are no child."

"Sir?"

"Potter, I knew your aunt when she was young. I grew up in Spinner's end, and I was friends with your mother once."

"My mother?"

"Yes, Lily Evans. She helped me when I was hurting and filled with self-loathing. My father was not a kind man; in fact, he acted like your uncle. My mother tried to protect me in what little ways she could, but once I got my Hogwarts letter, it was impossible. Tobias Snape was a muggle, and he loathed Wizards."

Harry sat forward in his seat, a strange feeling fluttering in his chest. Snape knew what it felt like to be cast aside for being magical. "My aunt and uncle say I'm a freak," he admitted. "They say I don't deserve anything, that I should sleep in the cupboard under the stairs, and that if I act freakish, they'll beat it out of me. For years, I just wanted to be… normal. Even now I'm not! Even now I'm the 'Chosen One', and I just want to stop. I want to stop being a freak."

Snape put one hand on Harry's shoulder. At first, Harry flinched at the sudden contact, then he slowly began to relax. It felt like the support of a comrade-in-arms. It felt like the support of someone who _understood_ , not someone who told him he was "so brave" and heaped pity upon him.

"You're not a freak, Harry. Your mother would be proud of you, and if she knew how your aunt and uncle have treated you, she would track them down and make them pay. She loved you very, very much. You are _not_ a freak."

"Maybe," Harry said, giving Snape a wan smile.

Snape returned the gesture with a small smile of his own, although it looked very strange coming from the dour Potions Professor. "I shall see you next week, then, Potter? Or would you prefer Madam Pomfrey?"

"I'd like to see you," Harry answered.

"Good. In the meantime, be sure to drink your potions, because I put a lot of work into them, and I'll look into a summer home for you."

Harry's mouth fell open. "A summer home?"

"Yes, your situation at the Dursleys cannot continue. I shall talk with the Headmaster and find you a willing foster-family for the summers."

"Thank you, sir. Did— did you ever have a summer home?"

"No," Snape said shortly. "But I would have liked one, and I know it would have been better for me than staying in Spinner's End every summer."

Harry nodded. "Thank you again."

"Don't mention it, Potter." Then Snape swept from the room, leaving Harry still sitting in the comfortable armchair and marvelling at what had just occurred.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Years later, Poppy was tending to Harry Potter after he had just barely escaped an encounter with a _dragon_ , for Merlin's sake. The boy still seemed older than his years, but he was also laughing and smiling with his friends, acting for all the world like a typical teenager, so she knew he would be alright. If after everything he had gone through he could still make jokes about school and chatter about Quidditch with his friends, he was going to be okay.


	42. The Greengrasses

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Drabble

 **Prompt:** [Speech] "Yeah, and that would be great if we could afford it"

 **Word Count:** 387

o0O0o

"Daphne, can you keep a secret?"

In reply, Daphne only looked at her younger sister. "What do you think?" she said, raising an eyebrow.

"Okay," Astoria giggled. "I know you can."

"Quite right." Daphne motioned for Astoria to sit down beside her on the couch. "What is it you want to tell me?" she asked.

"I— I think I'm in love with Draco Malfoy."

"Draco?" Daphne frowned. "No one likes the Malfoys, Astoria. They were Death Eaters, no matter what Narcissa did."

"I know," her sister sighed. "But he loves me too, and we're planning to get married in June."

"June?" Daphne cried, her voice cracking. "That's in three months! Astoria, this is a terrible match! You _can't_ marry him!"

"But I love him and he loves me," Astoria replied, a stubborn set to her jaw.

"I don't care!" Daphne shouted. "We just finished rebuilding from the war, Tori! We didn't take sides, mum and dad 'donate' thousands of galleons to the Ministry each year, and I married _Michael Corner_ to get everyone to trust us again, even if we _are_ Slytherins! I will _not_ let you undo all of our sacrifices with one ill-conceived act of utter stupidity!"

"But we love each other!" Astoria screamed back, jumping to her feet and glaring at her older sister. "We love each other and we _will_ get married, even if we have to elope!" Unshed tears glinted in Astoria's eyes, and she let out a gasping sob. "You always said you believed in true love," she said softly.

"Yeah, and that would be great if we could afford it, but we can't." Daphne slid off the couch, her demeanour now cold as ice. She wouldn't lose control again. Grabbing her sister's wrist, she marched her to the door. "Come on. We're telling Mother and Father about your plans."

"Daphne—" Her sister struggled in her grip. "I— I thought you could keep a secret—"

"Not this one," Daphne said. "I can't allow this to happen."

Astoria sighed, going limp in Daphne's grasp like a rag doll that has been pulled too many times. "I'm sorry, but I can't allow this to happen either," she said, pulling her wand from her robes and aiming it straight at her older sister's head. "Obliviate."


	43. My Son, Draco

**House** : Slytherin

 **Category** : short

 **Prompt:** [Speech] "I know enough that I won't die. So, teach me how to do this."

 **Word count:** 672

 **A/N.** This is a slight AU.

oO0Oo

Draco swallowed hard. "I know enough that I won't die. So, teach me how to do this." He held his wand in a white-knuckled grip, his entire body tensed and ready to fight… or to flee. The boy was terrified, his father could tell. He was good at hiding his emotions, but not that good.

Lucius looked down at his son. "You do realize this is dangerous."

"I do." His son's words were hard and unyielding. Draco Malfoy had the potential to be a great man. Already he was making his father proud. "I understand the risks involved, father."

"Yet you insist on joining a Death Eater raid."

"I must prove my loyalty." Draco nodded sharply, his eyes focused on his father's face. It seemed as though he were searching for an emotion, or even searching for Lucius's thoughts. How fortuitous it was that the boy did not know Legilimency. "You of all people would understand."

"I would. Spilling magical blood just because it belongs to mudbloods, half-bloods, and blood-traitors is still spilling magical blood and requires a certain level of dedication to the Dark Lord." Lucius looked at his son again, seeing a fifth-year who had not even taken his OWLs yet. He was so young… and yet he would heap upon himself the responsibilities of adulthood. "You know that your mother would not approve."

Draco's eyes flashed. "She may not approve, but what I do will keep her safe. If our family's loyalty is called into question, she is the one who spends the most time in the Manor. She would be the first to feel the wrath of the Dark Lord."

"She would," Lucius replied, his calm manner betraying nothing. Although he wished it were not so, for Narcissa did not deserve to suffer for his folly, there was no way around it. "I am proud of you, my son, for considering your mother."

Draco gave him a strained half-smile. "She is my mother," he said simply, "and she deserves the best we can give her."

Lucius nodded. "For her sake, I will teach you, then. There is not much to be learned, for much of this knowledge you have already from your summers spent with your mother and those tutors we hired for you, but there exists a certain art to a successful muggle hunt."

"Father, I asked to join a Death Eater raid." Draco's tone was bland, but Lucius could nonetheless hear the irritation in his son's voice.

"First things must always come first," he replied. "Before going on a Death Eater raid, you shall participate in the muggle hunt. After all, muggles cannot fight back, but muggle hunts nevertheless signal your loyalty and devotion to the Dark Lord."

Draco sighed, his form relaxing infinitesimally. "As always, you are correct, father. So, what must I know to hunt muggles?"

"Not much," Lucius answered. "I trust that you can cast the Unforgivables?"

Draco's eyebrows rose. "I- I would have to cast those on muggles?" he asked, an unmistakable tremor in his voice.

"You would," Lucius said smoothly. "It is expected of all Death Eaters. But it is not difficult, especially when you are only casting on muggles. I trust you know the wand movement and incantation?"

"Of course," Draco scoffed.

"Then follow me. We shall go to Edinburgh and procure you a test subject. After all, you are a Malfoy, and a Malfoy would not go into his first muggle hunt unprepared." Lucius strode from the room, pride swelling within him. Draco would do well as his heir, and he would please the Dark Lord with his precocious prowess. For once, Lucius felt the first stirrings of hope. With a son so eager to learn the ways of the Dark, the Malfoys would surely benefit from the new order. "I am glad you came to me," he said to his son. "It showed strength of will. If you ever wish to learn anything beyond the Hogwarts curriculum, do not hesitate in the future. I will be all too happy to assist you."

Draco nodded. "I will. Thank you, father."

"It is my pleasure."


	44. Things that go Bump in the Night

**House** : Slytherin

 **Category** : short

 **Prompt:** [Character] Igor Karkaroff

 **Word count:** 1093

 **A/N.** Obviously AU, and thanks to Kris for inspiring this fic all the way back in year One.

oO0Oo

"My Lord?" Now that the room was empty save for himself and the Dark Lord, Lucius spoke. "Is it wise, sending Karkaroff back to kill the mudblood? I do not question your wisdom, for without Granger, Potter would be nothing, but time is not kind to those who travel back even a two hours. To send Karkaroff back ten years..."

The Dark Lord laughed, cold and cruel. "Karkaroff is useless. If he succeeds, then we celebrate. If he dies, then we do not mourn his death. Do you understand, Lucius?"

Lucius swallowed hard. "I do," he replied. "May I leave to prepare for my meeting with the Minister?"

"You may." Lucius could feel his Lord's eyes following him out of the room, and he held back a shudder. The Dark Lord had disposed of Karkaroff so carelessly — he would send the man back ten years in a vain attempt to kill a schoolgirl. It did not matter to the monster sitting in his study that Karkaroff would in all likelihood be ripped limb from limb by the powerful currents of time. It didn't matter at all.

He wished Karkaroff the best of luck: a swift, painless death. However, he doubted Karkaroff would receive one.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Hermione sat bolt upright on her bed. "Dad?" she called, her voice high and quavering. She had felt something go _thump_ under her bed. She knew something was under her bed that didn't belong there. "Daddy? There's a monster under my bed, Daddy!"

She could hear her father's footsteps in the hallway. "Hermione, there's no such thing as monsters," he said as he came into her room and turned on the light. In the light, her room looked as it always did, and Hermione began to feel a little sheepish.

"I know, I'm eight years old and monsters don't exist," she huffed. "But dad, could you look anyways?"

"Fine." He bent down and peered under her bed. When he straightened back up, he gave Hermione a small half-smile. "There's nothing there, honey."

"But I heard a _thump_!" she protested.

"It was probably just your imagination," he said. "Try to get some sleep, okay?" After pressing a kiss to her forehead, he left her room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Hermione stayed sitting upright in bed long after he'd left, unwilling to lie down and drift back to sleep. Something… something was under her bed. She could feel it. The tree outside of her bedroom rustled, and the curtains shifted a little, letting the light of the full moon shine into the room and cast the shadowy pattern of leaves onto the wall. She sat there, her senses on high alert, the blankets pulled up to her chin. Slowly, slowly, when the numbers on her alarm clock had moved from 11:30 to 11:42, she finally relaxed and lay back down.

Then she heard a moan.

It was low, gutteral, and it was _coming from right under her_.

"Dad!" she shrieked. "Daddy!"

"What is it, honey?" her father burst into her room, throwing on the lights and making Hermione shield her eyes.

"There's— there's something under my bed! I heard it!"

In a flash, his panic vanished. "It's okay," he murmured, running a hand over her curls and holding her close to him. "There's no such thing as monsters, Hermione."

"But— but could you check anyways?"

He sighed. "I can." He knelt down and peered under her bed, but he did not suddenly scream or shout or even flinch — when he stood back up, he only said, "There's nothing there, Hermione."

Hermione swallowed hard. "Can— can you leave the lights on?" she asked.

"Of course."

After he'd left, Hermione sat there on her bed, trying to work up the courage for what she was going to do next. _Monsters don't exist, monsters don't exist,_ she repeated to herself. Yet she knew that unless she looked under her bed herself, she wouldn't be able to sleep tonight.

Finally, when her alarm clock read 1:03, Hermione slid out of bed. Her bare feet touched the ground, and she thought she heard a muffled giggle, but she ignored it. _Monsters don't exist_. She crouched down, taking the edge of her comforter in her hands. _Monsters don't exist_. In one quick movement, she threw back her blanket, revealing what lay beneath her bed.

It should have been empty. There shouldn't have been anything under her bed. But— there was.

Underneath her bed lay the mangled corpse of a man. His eyes were deep, black, bottomless pits that burned with an unholy light. His limbs were a pallid hue but his stomach was a deep, vibrant red. The man — the monster — the man under her bed was dying.

Hermione dropped the blanket in shock and hurriedly scooted a way, uncertain what to do — and then she heard the barest of whispers, "Come here, child."

She didn't know why she did it. Maybe it was that she knew he was dying and didn't want to deny a dying man his final wishes, but she slowly lifted the blanket again to let the light fall on his ravaged face. He had silver-streaked hair, and his face was lined with wrinkles, but the darkness still burned in his eyes.

"Yes?"

He coughed, the sound coming from deep within him and Hermione thought she heard the slosh of liquid in his lungs. "You— you will do great things," he whispered. "I was sent to kill you, but… when you see me again, do not think too badly of me."

"What do you mean?" Hermione said.

"You're a witch." Blood dribbled out of the corner of his mouth as he spoke, and from the way he grimaced he, too, knew his time was drawing near. "Remember me, Hermione Granger. Remember Igor Karkaroff dying under your bed for a man he barely believed in and—" he took a shallow, gasping breath, "stay away from the Dark."

Then the light dimmed in his eyes, and strangely enough, his body began to shimmer and disappear. When Hermione reached out to touch where he used to be, her fingers met nothing.

He was gone. But Hermione knew she would remember Igor Karkaroff dying under her bed for the rest of her life. When she couldn't sleep at night, she would think of his black eyes and the horribly bright red blood staining his midriff, and how his last, gasping breath had sounded. The monster under her bed had physically disappeared, but Hermione knew an even uglier one had appeared in its place — and this time, there was no getting rid of it.


	45. Cuthbert Binns

**House** : Slytherin

 **Category** : drabble

 **Prompt** : [Character] Professor Cuthbert Binns (Living days, not ghost days)

 **Word count:** 400

oO0Oo

"Cuthbert, you're getting on in the years."

Cuthbert turned to the Headmistress. "And what if I am?" he wheezed. "Might I remind you that I've been teaching here at Hogwarts longer than you, Miranda?"

"Hey, don't talk to her like that." Isaac intruded on the conversation, his eyes flashing dangerously as he glared at Cuthbert. "She's the Headmistress, and she deserves your respect."

"Oh, leave me alone," Cuthbert sighed. The young ones were always so hot-headed and irrational. "You're only the assistant gamekeeper, Isaac. Talk to me when you have a proper job."

"I do!" the boy had the nerve to say, throwing up his arms. "I teach Care of Magical Creatures now, and you _know_ that I want to teach History of Magic! The goblins are a mis-represented race, and—"

"Please, there's no need to shout," Miranda interrupted. "Isaac, you know that once Cuthbert retires you are to teach History of Magic. And Cuthbert, you know that Isaac means well. After all, once you've passed, someone must complete the thankless task of filling young minds with the wealth of knowledge."

"I know." Cuthbert pushed his glasses up and regarded the young man with suspicious eyes. "But I do not believe he does."

Isaac smirked. "Believe me, I do." He tipped his head at Cuthbert. "When our doddering old Professor here finally kicks the bucket — because we all know he isn't going to retire willingly — it's my turn to teach History of Magic."

Miranda pursed her lips. "I wouldn't have put it that way," she said. "Well, either way, I have a meeting with the Board of Directors soon. I shall leave you to it."

"I should be going to," Isaac said, sneaking a look at Cuthbert as he spoke. Something in the young man's gaze made him uncomfortable… he looked almost predatory? But that couldn't be right.

"Have a nice time." Cuthbert settled into the armchair that was placed before the raging fire. "I'll just be sitting here, preparing for my next class." He shut his eyes, soaking in the warmth, and he was on the verge of falling asleep when he heard a muttered, _Avada Kedavra._

When he woke, he realized that he was pearlescent, but he decided that was only a minor consideration. After all, he hadn't heard Isaac walk away before he died, and he would be damned if he let that hot-headed youngling teach his subject.


	46. Snape and Lucius

**House** : Slytherin

 **Category** : theme

 **Prompt** : [Speech] "Care to tell me why you're bleeding?"

 **Word count:** 2028

oO0Oo

Severus's eyes flitted from side to side. The corridor was empty. Darting across the passageway, he slid into an abandoned classroom. It was empty save for a blackboard, and the floor was covered in a thick, undisturbed dust. Perfect. No one would find him here. Pulling his Potions book out from underneath his robes, he flipped through the pages, searching for his latest experiment. When he reached it, he slowly reached for his wand, eyeing the smooth, pale skin of his forearm. The spell was meant for enemies, but he couldn't drag Potter into an abandoned classroom; he would use an animal, but the spell was meant for humans.

That meant there was only one way to test his newest creation. He would have to cast it on himself.

Severus swallowed hard, unable to tear his eyes away from the unblemished skin. His right hand trembled from the strain and indecision as it held his wand hovering over his left arm. The skin was so clean and pure… but he needed this spell. His only power in Slytherin was his ability to brew exotic potions and create spells; without it, he was nothing but a punching bag for other students. The greasy-haired, sallow-skinned, half-blood son of a blood traitor.

"Sectumsempra," he muttered, slashing down at his arm. A bright white light flashed, and then a stinging pain sliced through his arm. Severus watched as a criss-cross of cuts and wounds began spreading outwards from the initial incision, and how the blood eagerly poured from those wounds and out of his body. It had only been fifteen seconds, yet already he felt lightheaded. Quickly, before he lost consciousness and died in this abandoned classroom, he cast the counter-curse, then shakily got to his feet.

He had succeeded. Now, to finish the remainder of his Herbology essay detailing the various uses of Mandragora. Severus staggered back to his Common Room, giving the password without noting anything and luckily avoiding Filch. He walked in, and made a beeline straight to his room; however, a slow drawl stopped him short.

"Snape." It came from the couches around the fire, the low green couches that were reserved for only the most powerful in the House.

Severus stopped. "It's very late," he said mildly. He hadn't expected anyone to be in the Common Room at this hour.

"It is." Lucius Malfoy sat up and looked Severus straight in the eyes. "Care to tell me why you're bleeding, Snape?"

"I would rather not," Severus replied coldly, drawing his black robes tighter around him. "If it is no trouble to you, Malfoy, I would much prefer to return to my dormitory. It is late, and I still have a Herbology essay to finish."

"Ah, but I would quite like to speak with you." Malfoy slowly got up from the couches and walked to where Severus stood. In the dim lighting, it was difficult to see just where Lucius was looking, but Severus knew that he was giving him a once-over, no doubt noticing that his robes were encrusted with blood. Severus frowned. If he had just thought to _Scourgify_ his robes, he would not be in this position right now. He blamed his uncharacteristic carelessness on the blood loss. He really should have brought a blood replenishing potion with him. Idiot.

"Are you quite finished?" he snapped, finally growing weary of Malfoy's silent scrutiny. "I really must be going."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "Remember your place," he said quietly. "Of the two of us, who holds the respect and admiration of his House?"

"And of the two of us, who holds the ability to craft spells and brew exotic potions?" Severus shot back. "Political power is not everything, Malfoy."

"Ah, but neither is brute force," Malfoy answered. "Don't think that I do not know of your continued fondness for the mudblood Evans, even after you publicly denounced her. You have great untapped power, Severus Snape, but if you refuse to use it for the betterment of your House, then it is useless."

"I shall use my abilities as I see fit." Worry gnawed at Severus: if Malfoy knew about Lily, what else did he know about? "Keep away from me, Malfoy. Or you'll regret it."

"Ah, but you are in no position to be making threats, Snape. At some point all must sleep, and when you finally sleep, we shall be waiting." Lucius Malfoy smiled, the light of the fire casting strange shadows across his face and, for a brief moment, making him seem demoniac.

Severus swallowed hard. "Duly noted, Malfoy." He turned away from the Slytherin prefect and began to climb the stairs - but as he stood there at the door to his dormitory, he turned back around and said, "Malfoy, I was experimenting with a spell of mine. It is called 'Sectumsempra', and it is meant for enemies."

Malfoy smiled sharply, like a shark. "I am glad to hear that, Severus. Perhaps we can talk tomorrow, after breakfast. I shall meet you on the shore of the Black Lake."

Severus nodded. "I shall see you then." Then he entered his dormitory, and without rousing the others from their sleep, he slid into his bed and drew the curtains around him. There, he lay back, his Herbology essay forgotten, as he thought about the implications of his conversation with Lucius Malfoy. It seemed as though the pureblood meant to recruit him… but if so, why now? They had always known he was powerful.

As Severus drifted off to sleep, he wondered just what Lucius thought he could achieve. After all, he would not act against Lily. He had power, but he wouldn't use it against the girl who had made his childhood bearable. He wouldn't do that to her. Already she thought him a Slytherin, but he would not have her think of him as a Death Eater as well.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The next morning, Severus met Lucius Malfoy besides the Black Lake. "What do you want?" he said flatly, too tired to exchange inane pleasantries.

"I wish to talk," Malfoy replied.

"Well then, spit it out, Malfoy."

Malfoy chuckled. "Tsk. Tsk, no need to be so surly. If we are to be working together, Severus, I would much prefer that you learn to use my first name. Call me Lucius. After all, Lord Malfoy is my father."

"I'll decide if we're working together," Severus replied. "I don't remember discussing that last night."

"Because we didn't," Malfoy said. "But I would suggest that you give my propositions the attention that they deserve. After all, you are a powerful wizard, Severus. But without me, without the Dark Lord, you are nothing."

"I'll be the judge of that." His black eyes were wary, and guarded.

"Well, I suggest that you align yourself with me," Lucius continued, unfazed. "Such an alliance would bring protection and status, two things that you are sorely lacking."

Severus raised an eyebrow. "I'm not going to join your group."

"I wasn't asking you to, not yet anyway" Lucius replied. "I am merely proposing that you begin to associate with us. After all, if will be mutually beneficial."

"But what would I have to do?" Severus said. He knew Lucius Malfoy. He knew the pureblood never did anything unless he had an ulterior motive and it was undoubtedly in his best interests. "How is _my_ joining _your_ group useful to you, Malfoy?"

"Well, for one thing, the Dark Lord has asked it of me." Lucius leaned forward, lowering his voice as he spoke. "I am sure you have heard tales of just how implacable and demanding a master I serve."

"I have." Severus pursed his thin lips as he considered the latest turn this conversation had taken. The Dark Lord was interested in him. That did not bode well… and he knew what happened to those who refused the Dark Lord. Especially if those people were in the House of Slytherin, where Dumbledore's protection did not reach. "I think I would like to join you, Lucius." It was the sensible option, obviously.

Lucius Malfoy smiled. "I'm glad to hear it," he said, straightening up and turning back to the castle as he spoke. "I must be going now, but I expect to see you tonight. There shall be a meeting at the edge of the Forbidden Forest."

Snape nodded. "I shall be there."

"Then good day, Severus." Lucius gave him a wicked little smirk.

"Good day, Lucius."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The sun had already set when Severus began walking out to the Forbidden Forest. The grass whispered underfoot, and a great deal of trepidation filled his heart. There was no going back from this, regardless of what Malfoy claimed. Once you were in with people like this, there was never getting out. Of course he didn't actually have the luxury of choosing to say no. If the Dark Lord wanted him amongst the ranks of his faithful followers, he would either join or die and living was the more attractive option.

The dark figures loomed ahead and Severus was pulled up, as he saw a crumpled figure on the ground in the middle of the loose circle of wizards. His blood went utterly cold.

"Ah, Severus, so kind of you to join us." Malfoy's smooth voice seemed loud in the silence, and Severus found his legs carrying him forwards automatically.

"Of course," he answered. "I could not decline such an invitation."

Malfoy smirked. "I am glad you came," he said. "We have managed to procure a muggle, and it is time for you to show your worth. After all, the Dark Lord does not accept anyone. You must prove yourself."

Severus swallowed hard. When he spoke, his voice was even. "What am I to do?" he asked, almost hating to know the answer, for he could guess what it was the Dark Lord required. Nevertheless, he didn't want to do it.

"You are a clever one, Severus. What do you think you are to do to this muggle?" Lucius laughed cruelly.

"I must kill her," Severus said. "You want me to use an Unforgivable."

Lucius raised an eyebrow. "Close, but not quite. I want you to demonstrate your new spell. Your skill at crafting new things is one of the reasons we want you, after all."

Severus blinked. "My new spell?" he asked.

"Yes. I know you are powerful, but I want to see your killer instinct. And don't protest - I know the Sorting Hat wouldn't have put you in Slytherin if you did not have an inclination to the Dark." Lucius looked at the other wizards who stood in a semi-circle around Severus. They, too, were Slytherins and followers of the dark Lord.

Severus swallowed and stepped forward, knowing all too well that hesitation now would see him on the ground beside the muggle, and he'd never have the chance to rise again. He turned his eyes onto the Muggle, seeing the slight resemblance to the bane of his existence, James Potter. He let himself see the man as his nemesis, and let all the rage and anger flood forward, washing away any guilt he might feel. In the end the muggle had been dead the moment he was taken. That much was certain. He could end him quickly.

He had tried to stay pure, tried to stay loyal to Lily, but in the end, it had been impossible. He had power, and when Lucius Malfoy and the Dark Lord took especial interest, his fate had been decided. Once he killed this Muggle, he knew none of the Light would ever look upon him in the same way. He would never be able to look at himself the same way, either. He would be ruined, corrupted by the inexorable pressure of Lucius Malfoy and the Dark Lord.

He raised his wand and took a steadying breath and cast. "SECTUMSEMPRA!" The muggle screamed, blood soaking into the forest floor beneath him.

He had cast off the mortal coil, and now he had no other path than that laid before him. He would join the Dark Lord, and turn his back on the Light.

It was over.


	47. Father's Day (Slughorn)

**House.** Slytherin

 **Category.** Theme.

 **Prompt.** [Speech] "Quick, hide behind the chair!"

 **Word Count.** 2440

 **A/N.** Monstrous AU. Like, _very_. And extremely fluffy.

oO0Oo

A peaceful Sunday morning was dawning in the Slughorn household; however, one individual was already up and about, intent on causing mischief. Aaron Slughorn was busily rummaging through the kitchen, pawing through the cabinets, the pantry, the muggle refrigerator his mother had insisted on having. Finally he found the ingredients he needed, and then he took a much-crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket.

"Hm," he said aloud. "It says I need 100 grams of flour." Pulling the scale closer to him, he roughly measured the required amount, then dumped it in a big orange mixing bowl. "Then in the other bowl, I need 300 milliliters of milk and two large eggs…" He cracked the eggs into the bowl, stirred them, then looked at the milk. "However, I think a _different_ liquid will do much better. After all, who needs milk?" Aaron looked at his precious store of potion. Many a late night had been spent brewing in secret after his parents had gone to bed, and now his efforts were on the verge of bearing fruit. Grabbing the vial, he prepared to dump the light-brown potion into the pancake batter — then he stilled.

"Wait, I've got to cook this. What if that messes with the potion?" Frowning now, he put the potion down. "Yeah, that wouldn't be a good idea… but I don't have much, and I need to make sure that Dad eats some of it… hm."

Still puzzling over what exactly to do, Aaron began pouring the milk into the bowl. He finished his pancake batter easily enough, and then he turned on the stove and began preparing the cast-iron skillet. He had made three pancakes before it finally occurred to him just how to slip his Father the potion: he would put it in the maple syrup.

A wicked grin splitting his face, Aaron pulled the maple syrup from the fridge and poured his entire potion in there. "There we go, that will do the trick!" he cried, throwing his arms out in victory.

"Aaron?" His mother's quiet voice made him freeze. "What are you doing up this early?"

"Oh, uh, I wanted to make something special for Dad," Aaron said, hastily stepping between his mother and the maple syrup. He'd hate for all his hard work to go to waste. As he screwed back on the cap, he said, "I'm making pancakes for him. See?" The cap screwed on and the maple syrup seemingly identical to before, he stepped aside and showed his mother the stack of pancakes cooling on a plate, the pancake cooking on the stove, and the orange bowl of pancake batter sitting on the counter.

His mother blinked. "Well, that was very considerate of you, Aaron." She moved closer, assessing his work. "I'm surprised. You didn't even use magic?"

He grinned. "I can't when I'm on hols mum, you know that! Plus, it's not like I know any household spells." He pretended to draw a wand and cast, "Pancake-creation-ius!" Of course, nothing happened, and so he stowed the imaginary wand. "I may not be able to magic right now, mum, but I'd do anything for my old man."

"That's very good of you," she said, taking a seat at the kitchen table and watching him work. "You're setting such a good example for your younger sister."

Aaron deftly flipped the still-cooking pancake, then turned back to his mother. "I'm sure Elise will be fine. I mean, she's a witch!"

His mother laughed. "It's not that easy, Aaron. Remember, I'm a muggle."

"Yeah, but just think of all the pranks she'll be able to pull with magic! I've read all those muggle prank books Uncle Kevin and Uncle Luke keep sending me and they're _useless_."

"Look, Uncle Kevin and Uncle Luke don't know about magic, remember? They're _my_ brothers." His mother shook her head. "Speaking of pranks, I'm surprised you haven't pulled any yet. You don't have very long 'til Easter break ends, and you haven't turned Elise's hair purple yet."

"Because that's so _lame_ ," Aaron replied. "Come on, mum. That's what first-years would do. But now that I'm a third-year, I've got bigger fish to fry."

His mother raised an eyebrow. "Is there an ulterior motive to your sudden desire to cook breakfast for you father, then?" she asked.

"Definitely not," Aaron said without missing a beat. "If you want, you can even have a pancake yourself." He thanked whatever gods existed that he hadn't put the potion into the pancake batter and that his mother did not like syrup. Then, noting that the pancake currently on the stove was beginning to look rather over-browned, he flipped it off, grimacing a little at its color. Ah well. He'd just drown it in syrup, and then no one would be the wiser. "Feel free to eat this slightly burnt one," he said, gesturing to the most recent pancake.

She chuckled. "Well, if you're so willing to offer me one, I'm going to guess that there's nothing in them." Getting to her feet, she reached up to the higher cabinets that Aaron hadn't quite been able to reach and took out a big tray. "Here, you're going to want this."

"What is that?"

"It's a bed tray," his mother said, putting it down on the counter. "You probably haven't seen it since we don't eat breakfast in bed anymore, but before you were born your father and I used to do this all the time. It's where you put the food."

Aaron nodded, his mind already jumping to what else he was going to do. "Awesome, mom. Could you watch this pancake for me? I've gotta start pouring orange juice and getting some flowers. Can I cut the tulips?"

"You can cut _one_ tulip. I still haven't forgiven you for butchering my peonies when you told me you were only going to get one for that witch in your year."

"Mum! I thought we had agreed not to talk about that!" Aaron protested, his ears starting to heat up.

"All's fair in love and war," his mother replied, peering at and stirring the pancake batter that remained in the orange bowl with a speculative look on her face. "Now, hurry up Aaron! I haven't got all morning. I've still got to wake up Elise and get her ready for whatever Quidditch event your father got invitations to this time. I'll never understand why that sport is so popular, but who knows."

"It's _Quidditch_ ," Aaron called after him, his intonation making it perfectly clear that that was all the explanation required. After picking two tulips (because having just one flower just looked so _lonely_ ), he walked back into the kitchen and began pouring a tall glass of juice for his father. Then he caught sight of the pancake batter. "Mum! Did you add more?"

"Of course." His mother didn't seem the least bit repentant. "But Elise and I have to eat too, Aaron, so of course I doubled the recipe."

Aaron rolled his eyes, once again thanking his lucky stars that he hadn't put the potion into the pancakes proper. "Well, I'm going to take Dad his pancakes as soon as I finish setting up his tray, so could you get Elise now? I want you and Elise to be there too when I give him his breakfast."

"Sure." His mother handed him the spatula, then left the kitchen. Aaron could hear her climbing the stairs, and in that short window, he acted. Elise didn't like syrup either, but she _did_ like Snareberry jam (which was made from the fruit of the Devil's Snare; Elise said it "had a bite to it", but Aaron thought it was disgusting, although there was no accounting for taste). He grabbed the potion vial, ready to dump whatever remained of its contents into the jam, but when he tried to, he realized that there was nothing left. Bugger. Ah well, he'd have to content himself with the biggest fish.

As soon as he finished filling the tallest, most elegant glass he could find with juice and placing the two tulips into a small glass vase, he began piling pancakes onto the finest china plate his parents had. A frosted glass bottle would make a good place for his maple syrup and potion mixture, so Aaron did that as well. When he finished preparing the breakfast tray, he took a step back to admire his work. It looked _fancy_.

That's when his sister walked in. "Aaron!" she cried. "Is that for me?"

"Nope, sorry Elise. It's for dad."

"Please?"

"Nope, and not another word! You got his Father's Day card?"

"Yup!" Smiling widely, she ran to the bookshelf and took out a square of paper. It had four smiling figures on it, one of whose hair was a healthy rainbow color.

"Is that supposed to be me?" Aaron said with a laugh. He took the card from her, squinting a the stick figures suspiciously.

"Yup!" She grinned. "Back when you almost blew up your room with your magic!"

Aaron frowned at his sister. "Hey, I'll have you know that I did that when I was very, very young and clueless… in fact, I did it when I was your age."

"Hey! Aaron, that's mean!" she protested.

"So's coloring my hair rainbow," he shot back. "Now come on Elise, let's give Dad his breakfast in bed." Together, the two siblings carried the tray to the master bedroom, where their father lay sleeping, enjoying a late and lazy Sunday morning…

"Daddy!" Elise shouted. "Can we come in!"

His peaceful sleep suddenly ruptured by the shriek of his excited eight year daughter, Horace Slughorn yawned before saying, "Yes, you may."

"Daddy!" Elise shot forward to tackle her father, and Aaron grunted as he suddenly had to save the breakfast tray from an ignominious tumble onto the floor. _That_ would certainly derail his well-laid plans.

"Hello Elise," his father groaned, trying his best to reciprocate Elise's energy. "What brought this lovely Sunday morning surprise?"

"Well… it's Father's Day," Aaron said, placing the breakfast tray onto the bed. "So I made you this!"

His father looked at him skeptically. " _You_ made this? How do i know it's not poisoned?"

"Very funny dear." His mother had come into the room as well, and she took Elise from her husband. "I watched him cook all of this, and since he offered to give me a pancake, I'm assuming they're perfectly safe."

"If you say so." His father looked at the pancakes once more, then shrugged.

Aaron watched eagerly as his father picked up the beautiful bottle of maple syrup… and then put it back down. "Dad, aren't you going to put maple syrup on your pancakes?"

"I wish I could, but I'm on a diet now and I'm supposed to avoid refined sugars…" Then his father's eyes narrowed. "Anyway, why would it matter to you?"

 _Think fast, Aaron_. "Well, I mean, I put a lot of work into those pancakes so that you'd have an awesome breakfast and I'd really hate it if you didn't enjoy them as much as you should because you didn't put syrup on them. I know you much you love syrup."

His father seemed to weight his answer, then he shrugged. "For you, my boy, I'll eat it with syrup."

"I'm sure that was quite a sacrifice," his mother said dryly.

"It certainly is." His father drowned his pancakes in syrup, then raised one forkful to his lips, looking for all the world as though eating pancakes with copious amounts of syrup was a religious experience. Then he took a bite. After a few seconds, his eyes widened and he spat out the pancake, but not after he had swallowed some. "Aaron!" he bellowed — or really, he would have bellowed, had he been able to produce any sound other than high-pitched squeak. "What did you put in these pancakes?!"

Aaron was laughing too hard to answer. His father may have been built like a walrus, but right now, he sounded like a fairy. "Dad, is that you? You sound funny," he said through his laughter, darting to the door just in case his father decided to come after him. "In fact, you sound just like those mermaids in the lake…"

"Oh, I'm going to get you boy!" his father squeaked.

"Not unless you catch me first!" Aaron raced from the room, dashing up the stairs to hide in his sister's room. He hid there, under the bed, waiting to hear his father's heavy footfalls as he climbed the stairs… but it was silent. Was it a Silencing charm? Aaron stayed curled up underneath the bed, but after what felt like fifteen minutes, he couldn't take it any longer. He warily stuck his head out.

The room was empty. From what he could see of the hallway (through the crack in the door), it was empty too. He carefully got out from underneath the bed. There was no one in the hall… his stomach then chose that moment to rumble, reminding Aaron that he hadn't had anything to eat at all this morning. But there was a stack of untouched pancakes sitting in the kitchen…. His mind made up, Aaron snuck down the stairs towards the kitchen. However, just as he was about to slip a pancake into his pockets, his sister raced in.

"Aaron!" she shouted. "Dad's coming! Run! Run!"

Startled, Aaron almost dropped the pancake before following his sister out into the living room. "Where should I hide?" he hissed, looking around wildly. "Where does he look!"

"I can hear him, he's coming— Quick, hide behind the chair!" Elise shouted, motioning for Aaron to crawl behind a rather ugly, massively overstuffed pinstriped armchair.

"Where did we get this?" he whispered to his sister. "It's really ugly…"

"Call me ugly, will you?" To Aaron's horror, the chair was speaking— and in his father's fairy voice. "Well, take this boy!" Suddenly, the armchair was gone, and in its place stood Aaron's father, who grabbed him around the waist and carried him triumphantly back to his bedroom.

"No! Put me down! Someone, save me!" Aaron shouted, vainly beating his fists against his father's back.

"This'll teach you," his father squeaked. "Eat this." A plate of pancakes drowned in maple syrup was pushed before him.

"No— do I have to— please no—" Aaron struggled in his father's grip, but it was to no avail. The pancakes were shoved in his mouth, and his next words were in a high-pitched, squeaky fairy voice identical to his father's. "What have I _done_?!"


	48. Neville & Luna

**House.** Slytherin

 **Category.** Drabble

 **Prompt.** [Setting] A spot under a tree by a lake.

 **Word Count.** 445

oO0Oo

She was sitting barefoot underneath a tree beside the Black Lake, staring off into the distance. Her expression was pensive and wistful, and there was breeze blowing off the lake, ruffling her hair and sending it flying around her head like a halo. Neville swallowed hard. "Hey Luna," he said casually, sitting down beside her and slinging an arm around her shoulder.

She didn't even turn to look at him. "I'm surprised," she said, still gazing off into the distance, her grey eyes luminous.

"Why?"

She didn't answer for a long time, then turned to face him. "Well," she said hesitantly, "I'm Luna Lovegood."

Neville chuckled. "And I'm Neville Longbottom."

She smiled at that, although she still seemed sad. "Neville Longbottom, the man who destroyed Voldemort's final horcrux with the sword of Gryffindor and won the war."

Neville ducked his head and shrugged. "Yeah, well, Harry did most of it."

"You still did a lot."

"And so did you," Neville countered.

For a split second, something angry flashed in her eyes, and then it was gone. She pursed her lips. "I'm Loony Lovegood," she said almost bitterly. "My shoes are meant to be stolen, and my belongings destroyed." She sighed. "Neville, I like you, I really do, but remember that I'm Loony Lovegood. I'm as crazy as they come."

Neville frowned. "First of all, you're not crazy. I know crazy." At the thought of Bellatrix, he scowled; then he remembered the witch before him, and his face softened. "And besides..." He hadn't wanted to say this yet, but the situation seemed to call for it. "Luna, I think I love you. And when you're in love, you don't think clearly." A smile tugged at the corner of his lips: how long had he wanted to say that! "Please understand Luna, I'm in love with you, so you see — we're all mad here."

Suddenly, Neville found himself in Luna's embrace, her body shuddering against his and her head buried in his shoulder. He held her close, hoping he had said the right thing, patting her back and stroking her hair. When she finally pulled away, she was grinning, although her eyes were red. "I think I love you too," she said. "No, I _do_ love you."

"And I love you, Luna." He reached out to cup her cheek. "I've loved you for a long time now, I just didn't want to say anything during the war.

"Me neither," Luna replied, leaning in to rest her forehead against his.

"It's crazy that it's finally over…"

"But life is crazy, and now," Luna grinned, "we can all be crazy together."

Neville smiled. "You mean crazy in love."


	49. Broken Wine Glass

**House.** Slytherin

 **Category.** Short

 **Prompt.** [Object] Broken Wine Glass.

 **Word Count.** 628

oO0Oo

He held the broken wine glass by the stem, wondering where it had all gone wrong. When he'd first met Astoria, he'd thought their love would last forever… but now the broken glass and the blood red wine pooled on the floor said differently. The smell took him back in time, though, and he remembered happier days…

The first time he'd seen Astoria, it had been at Blaise's villa. A few years had passed since the war, so it'd been a pleasant surprise to find the girl he only remembered as vaguely irritating had blossomed into a confident young woman. The three of them had gone out to town that night and dined at Enoteca Pinchiorri, where Blaise had almost passed out after taking seven shots in quick succession in a vain attempt to impress the local girls. After his friend had puked and collapsed onto the table, Draco had gained a sudden and newfound appreciation for Astoria. She'd kept her head and helped him support Blaise as they staggered back to the villa. Then, once Blaise was asleep, the two of them had shared a quiet candlelit dinner on the balcony. It had been beautiful.

From there, their relationship had only grown. Draco had never thought it possible to love someone as much as he loved Astoria, but he did; before he'd known what was happening, he was on his knees before her, promising her the world if she would only marry him. Of course, she did. At their wedding, Blaise (his best man) had stood up and raised his glass, proclaiming: "A toast to the groom and to the bride! May you find eternal happiness in one another, and may your cup forever run over!"

Now, looking back, it seemed almost prophetic that Blaise had chosen those exact words. After having been married for two years, Draco knew he was no closer to finding happiness than he had been when the Dark Lord had haunted his halls. In the beginning, his marriage to Astoria had been bliss; however, as the months passed, he began to notice just how poorly matched they truly were. Astoria _enjoyed_ hosting social events in the Manor, but to Draco, they was torture; Astoria _adored_ shopping, while Draco found it drained the Malfoy vaults far too much for his liking. When he first broached the topic to her, she had only blinked at him, then said, "But dear, it's only Galleons."

"It is," he'd said. "But I want to save those Galleons for our children." From her gobsmacked expression, he knew he'd said something wrong. "Do you not want children?"

"I'd rather not… but we can talk about that later, okay dear?" She had smiled at him, then said, "By the way, I'm hosting an informal get-together with the Notts and the Montagues tonight, so if you could have the House Elves begin decorating… that'd be great." She'd given him a feather-light kiss, and then she was gone. Past experience dictated that she would be secluded in the master bedroom trying on the various robes she'd bought over the years.

How far they had come. Not even two months after that conversation, Astoria had left him, and he had been _glad_ to see her go. Draco looked at the broken wine glass in his hand, wondering yet again how his happy marriage had shattered. Their love had been as deep and as red as the full-bodied wine which sat sparkling in its crystal decanter, and their cup had been overflowing… but now the glass had broken, and it was clear it hadn't been the wine of love within that fine glass; rather, it had been the blood of hate.


	50. Superheroes

**House.** Slytherin

 **Category.** Theme.

 **Prompt.** [Speech] "I'm not sure the protocol for revealing secret identities, so… hi, I guess?"

 **Word Count.** 2346

 **A/N.** Prepare yourself for an extremely fluffy and silly AU. Like, seriously. Your eyes may burn from overexposure to fluffiness. And let me repeat - this is AU!

oO0Oo

"You look very nice," Hermione giggled. Dressed in an eye-catching Superman costume complete with fake abs and shoulder pads, Harry looked very heroic. "Now tell me again why we're here in a muggle store buying superhero costumes?"

"Let's just call it a hunch." Harry gave her a mischievous grin. "Where's your costume, Hermione?"

"Really?"

"Really." Harry strode across the aisle and pulled something off the rack. "Here," he said, tossing it at Hermione. It was a Wonder Woman costume. "Try that on."

"But it's so revealing!" she protested, eying the model on the front with suspicion. There was no way that body shape was natural.

"Try it on anyways. With a few well-placed glamours, no one'll know it's you wearing it."

Hermione looked at Harry. "I like Wonder Woman, but what makes you think I'll _ever_ have a chance to wear this?"

"Let's call it a hunch," Harry repeated with a wink. "Now, into the changing room you go!"

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

Later that evening, when Hermione went over to Ginny's flat and complained about Harry's strange behaviour to her friend, Ginny nodded sympathetically.

"He brought me to that same costume shop," the redhead said. "Said he wanted me to dress up like some reporter girl — Louis Raine, I think he called her — and he was quite upset that the shop didn't have a Louis Raine outfit. Told me he'd buy me one somewhere else."

"Really?" Hermione said, laughing a little. "I think you mean Lois Lane… but oh Ginny, he was dressing up as Superman when we went shopping. That's just too precious."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it's cute that he's dressing up as Superman and you as Lois. In the muggle comics, those two always ended up together."

Ginny took a moment to process the information before her face lit up. "Oh, that is adorable. We've been dating for almost six years now."

"If you ask me, this looks like a sign that Harry's going to pop the question soon." Hermione winked at her friend. "So, where's this Lois Lane costume of yours? I'd love to see it."

"It's over here in the closet, Harry mailed it to me a couple of days ago but I didn't think much of it…"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Kingsley? What do you mean that Ministry event my team's been planning is set on Samhain?"

"Hermione, you know how it is. It's been 25 years since the Potters died in Godric's Hollow and the press wanted to commemorate You-Know-Who's temporary defeat." The Minister sighed. "Of course, then Harry had to get involved."

"What did he do?" Hermione asked, shaking her head slightly and wondering if Harry had managed to cancel the event. It would be nice to spend Halloween at her flat handing out candy to muggle children.

"Oh, he turned the whole ceremony — which was supposed to be very serious, of course — into some type of muggle costume party."

"He did _what_?"

"A muggle costume party. We're supposed to dress up, and anybody's welcome to attend."

Hermione sighed. "Lovely." Well, now she knew why Harry had insisted she purchase that Wonder Woman costume. "Thanks for the heads up, Kingsley. I'll be sure to let my team know."

"Of course." Kingsley nodded, then left her office.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

That evening, Hermione stopped by Ginny's flat before going home. "Ginny?" she said after knocking. "It's me, Hermione."

"Oh, come on in," Ginny answered, pulling open the door and letting Hermione in. "What happened?"

Hermione grinned. "There's a costume party at the Ministry on Samhain," she said.

"Hmm. You think this is why Harry insisted we get these costumes?"

"Definitely. You want to get ready together?"

"Of course," the redhead said with a wink at Hermione. "Lois Lane is a muggle reporter, and you know how muggle reporters dress. Think they wear five inch stilettos?"

Hermione laughed. "Probably not, but for you, we can make an exception. I know Harry loves those stilettos. I'll be here by four?"

"Yup. See you then!"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

After hours spent perfecting their costumes, the Hermione and Ginny were ready for the Halloween party. Hermione, in her knee-high boots and her cleavage-baring top, felt extremely exposed and only ventured into public with a strong glamor over her face; meanwhile, Ginny was the picture of a muggle reporter, just a very wanton muggle reporter. Her costume left even less to the imagination than Hermione's (if that was even possible), and Hermione knew for a fact that underneath her professional-seeming clothes, her friend was wearing matching lingerie.

"Are you really going to the Ministry like that?" Hermione had hissed when Ginny had emerged from the bathroom in her costume.

"Of course!" Ginny had replied. "No one'll know it's me, not if you cast a glamor over my face too — only Harry will, since he bought the costume with me, and that's the _point_ , Hermione."

Hermione had shrugged, rather uncomfortable that Harry had insisted that she buy the Wonder Woman costume, but she brushed the thought away. Harry was like her brother and he knew it; plus, he was entirely smitten with Ginny. "Whatever you say," she had said. "You ready?"

"I always am."

After stepping into Ginny's fireplace and Flooing into the Ministry, the two women found themselves in the Atrium — however, it looked a far cry from its usual self. The lights were dim, and instead of little slips of violet paper flitting across a peacock-blue ceiling, there were bats flying around, their silhouettes clearly outlined against the dark orange ceiling.

"They've done a stupendous job," Hermione said, her eyes wide as she took in the room. Other guests were arriving by the second, and she spotted waiters — dressed in muggle werewolf, vampire, and ghost costumes — circulating and handing out little wrapped objects. She took one herself from the "ghost" who approached her. "Look, Ginny!" she said, tugging on her friend's sleeve. "It's a Twix!"

"What's a Twix?" Ginny asked, distracted. She was on her tiptoes, peering into the crowd and searching for someone.

"It's a muggle candy," Hermione said with a laugh. "I used to love these. Harry's done a fabulous job."

"Did someone say my name?" Harry appeared out of nowhere, giving Ginny a surprise hug and then releasing her. "You two look very nice."

"Thanks," Ginny said with a smirk. She gave Harry's costume a once-over. "You don't look to bad yourself."

At the blatant exaggeration, Hermione couldn't help but laugh. Sure, the Superman costume gave Harry anatomically impossible broad shoulders and insanely large bulging muscles, but she wouldn't say he looked _good_. "Well, 'Superman', you certainly have saved the day. The 'Commemoration of You-Know-Who's First Defeat' would have been mind-numbingly dull — I would know, I was on the planning committee for it."

Harry chuckled. "That's what Superman does, after all. He saves people in need." He looked at Ginny, then added, "I'll be saving this one from a life of spinsterhood."

"Very funny," Ginny deadpanned, "but you'd better not say it unless you mean it, Harry James Potter."

"Well, I've got until the night is out, then," Harry said with a wink. "But anyway, you won't believe this. There's someone here dressed as Batman."

"Who?" Hermione asked, her curiosity piqued.

"I'm not sure," Harry replied. "But I think it's a guy, and I last saw him over there by the drinks." He gestured in to the left.

"Let's go over and find this Batman then," Hermione said. "Come on." She set off, followed by Harry and Ginny.

"Who's Batman?" she heard Ginny say.

"He's a superhero too," Harry said in reply. "He fights crime, and in the Justice League episodes, he and Wonder Woman are seen as a couple."

"Wait…" Hermione could hear the amusement in her friend's voice. "Isn't she dressed up as Wonder Woman?"

"She is," Harry laughed.

Hermione spun. "Oh stop it, both of you know that I'm not going to fall head-over-heels in love with whoever this dude is. And wasn't Wonder Woman the princess of Themiskyra? She ruled an island of _Amazons_. She wasn't interested in men."

Harry smirked. "'Was' is the keyword there, _Diana_."

Hermione huffed. "Oh, be quiet, _Clark_. I seem to remember a quite a few seasons of Smallville dealing with your mooning over Lana Lang before you met Lois here."

Ginny glared at Harry in mock-outrage. "I thought you said there was no one else before me?"

Harry gave her a mischievous grin, which was a strange sight on Superman's normally stoic countenance. "There wasn't baby, and there never will be. No one can compare to those five-inch stilettos. Even Wonder Woman couldn't pull them off."

"Very funny," Ginny said with a roll of her eyes.

"I hate to interrupt your oh-so-interesting conversation," Hermione said, raising her voice to be heard over the crowd, "but where is this Batman, Clark?"

"Hmmm… I don't see him," Harry said. "But I do see Ron! His costume is shite — he's dressed as a keeper for the Chudley Cannons — but he's right there."

Ginny laughed. "He's seriously dressed as a Keeper for the Cannons? He plays Keeper for them anyway! That's ridiculous."

"You guys go on over, but I think I'll keep looking for Batman," Hermione said with a grimace. "I'd rather not see Ron right now."

For a split-second, Harry frowned before schooling his face into a more appropriate expression. "Got it, Hermione."

"Yeah," Ginny added. "My brother was a real prat when he broke up with you. We'll leave you alone now… have fun chasing down your mysterious Batman!" After a cheery wave and a knowing wink, Ginny dragged Harry off into the crowd.

Hermione smiled at her friend's antics, then set off in search of Batman. It would be difficult to find him — the Atrium was packed with people, and in the dim lighting it was hard to tell who was who without getting close. Hermione pushed her way through the crowd, marvelling at the sheer variety of costumes: she had already seen a couple Weird Sisters, a Lockhart, a Dumbledore, quite a few Quidditch players, and (to what she knew would be surely be Harry's horror) a couple Boy-Who-Lived at varying ages.

After searching the crowd for ages and bearing the perverted leers of a Dumbledore, a Fudge, and (oddly enough) a Margaret Thatcher, Hermione finally found Batman standing in a corner and nursing his drink.

Hermione grabbed a drink from a passing werewolf and sidled up to him. "So… you're a rich billionaire playboy?" she said by way of greeting, sipping her cider and looking at him over the rim of her glass.

He looked up, seemingly surprised that someone was talking to him. Then he smirked. "That I am," he said, his voice low, gravelly, and entirely unnatural. He probably had a voice-changer on. "I take you are the Princess of the Amazons?"

"Most certainly," Hermione replied with a chuckle. "We Amazons may not allow men on our islands, but we certainly know how to dress for them."

He laughed along with her. "That is a revealing costume you have on there; nonetheless, I must say that you look stunning in it."

Hermione blushed a little. "Thanks," she said. "You don't look half-bad yourself."

"These?" He flexed his arm. "These are mostly glamors, but I appreciate the compliment."

Following that, the two stood there at the edge of the party, snacking on candies, sipping their respective drinks, and chatting the night away. As the party came to a close, Hermione found she had really enjoyed her time with the mysterious Batman, and so she said as much. "I know Batman keeps his secret identity, well, secret," she said, toying with the coil of rope hanging from her waist as she spoke. "But I'd like to know the man beneath the mask."

"You want to see Bruce Wayne?" he said dryly.

She nodded. "I do."

He sighed, looking away from her. "I'd rather not."

"Well… what if I promise to reveal myself after?" Hermione licked her lips, nervous at showing the world just _who_ was wearing the skimpy Wonder Woman costume, but at this moment, her curiosity was worth much, much more than her potential embarrassment.

He tilted his head, as though he were thinking it over. Finally, he nodded. "That would work." He reached up to his mask and slowly began to pull it over his head, saying as he did so, "I'm not sure the protocol for revealing secret identities, so… hi, I guess?"

It was Draco Malfoy. It was Draco Malfoy beneath that mask, Draco Malfoy whom she had spent the entire evening chatting with. The mask came off as he said "hi", and Hermione was dumbstruck.

"H-hi," she stammered. "I-I guess it's my turn now?"

"It is," he said, his grey eyes never leaving hers as she took out her wand and ever so slowly took the glamor off herself. When it was finally gone, she gave him a small smile. "Hullo, Malfoy."

"Granger?!"

"The one and only," she laughed.

"Hermione?" Harry suddenly intruded, a rather drunken Ginny leaning heavily on his side. "Ginny and I are leaving now, so don't wait up for us— Malfoy?"

"Granger, who's this?" Malfoy sneered.

"It's Harry." She nodded to her friends. "Bye, have a good time, and for goodness sake propose to her already!"

"Already have," Harry replied with a grin. "Bye Hermione!"

He disappeared again, leaving Hermione with Malfoy.

"Figures that Potter would be Superman," Malfoy muttered.

Hermione chuckled. "I thought the same. Interesting, though, that you chose to dress as Batman."

"What can I say?" Malfoy replied. "A rich billionaire playboy with a big house, a haunted past, and a hankering for his _own_ brand of justice… there's no one I can relate with more. I'll see you around, Granger."

And then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd, and Hermione was left with some interesting revelations: namely, she had enjoyed her time spent with Draco Malfoy. Perhaps she ought to stop by the 'Wayne mansion' more often.


	51. Minerva & Rodolphus

**House.** Slytherin.

 **Category.** Bonus.

 **Prompts.** Slytherin: Season: Autumn/Fall, [Speech] "Is 'No' a foreign word to you?", [Romantic Pairing] Rodolphus Lestrange and Minerva McGonagall

 **Word Count.** 743

oO0Oo

It was good to be back at Hogwarts. It was even better to know that, he, Rodolphus Lestrange, was finally a seventh year. Although the snake and skull burned into his forearm spoke eloquently as to his plans after graduation, Rodolphus wasn't certain that was what he wanted to do. His parents were preparing his betrothal to Bellatrix Black, but he knew she wasn't the one for him.

He took a deep breath of the fresh fall air as he stepped off the Hogwarts Express. It was a rainy day, and the constant drizzle was beginning to wear on his nerves; nevertheless, he had a mission. Since fifth year, only one witch had held his heart. From the first Transfiguration class she'd taught him, Rodolphus had been utterly besotted: Minerva McGonagall, Professor though she was, outclassed any pureblood witch he knew. She was a halfblood, but she was markedly more sane than Bellatrix Black. However, he knew Minerva opposed his Lord.

He wished he could say he had ignored the witch and devoted himself entirely to his Lord; however, that was not the case. For the past two years, he had held a part of himself back from the Death Eaters, wanting to keep his hands as clean as possible for Minerva, but that could not continue. Sometime this year, his Lord would command him to make the ultimate sacrifice for the cause, and when that happened, Rodolphus could not afford to be undecided. He had to talk to Minerva immediately. Turning to his mates, he said, "I'll see you guys at the feast."

Avery raised an eyebrow, but he said nothing. The rest gave no indication they had heard him, but they must have, for they didn't speak as they headed toward the castle. Once his classmates were out of sight, Rodolphus strode towards the Black Lake. Like every other year, Minerva McGonagall was taking the first-years across the lake. He walked up to her, his heart pounding. This was it. This was the moment of truth. His future hinged on her next words. "I'd like to ride across the lake with you," he said.

"That is not possible," she said after a half-beat, her voice short and clipped. She squinted at him in the darkness. "Mister Lestrange, the boats are for first-years. As you are not a first year, please walk with the rest of the students to the castle."

Rodolphus shook his head. "You misunderstand. I _will_ be riding across the lake with you. I have something important to tell you." He had to tell her. Couldn't she see the desperation in his eyes? Didn't she have even the smallest inkling of what he wanted to say?

She pursed her lips. "Mister Lestrange, it seems I must repeat myself. You shall not be riding across the lake."

She didn't seem to care about him. Rodolphus knew it shouldn't wound him, yet it did... "But Minerva-"

"You shall address me as 'Professor'," she snapped, her eyes flashing. "Mister Lestrange, is 'no' a foreign word to you? You may not ride across the lake. Especially not with me."

Rodolphus felt bitter rage bubbling up within him, and it was with considerable effort that he forced himself to turn away from Minerva. "I see," he said, his voice low. "I shall not bother you again. My apologies, _Professor_ McGonagall."

He stormed away. Minerva didn't want him. She would never see him as more than a Slytherin, or even more than a student, even though she was only six years his senior. This was the beginning of the end. If Minerva didn't want him, there was no point in resisting the Dark Lord. There was nothing left to do. When the time came, he would make the decision that was required of him, consequences be damned.

At the thought, he felt a chill. So far he had only dabbled in the cold cruelty the Dark Lord commanded; however, he now saw a long, bleak winter stretched before him. His time spent in autumn, where he could still feel the summer's warmth, were quickly coming to an end. He would miss Hogwarts.

He knew that one day, while torturing muggles and alongside his insane wife, he would look back upon this time of his life with nostalgia. Although Minerva had rejected him, he had still been a fairly honorable man. Yet he knew that in ten, twenty years, that would no longer be the case.


	52. Professor Granger

**House**. Slytherin

 **Category**. Drabble

 **Prompt**. [Prompt] He/She/They had a look in his/their/her eyes that made everyone want to run.

 **Word Count**. 457

 **A/N**. Because I have been on a tomione spree lately and wasn't able to help myself ^^

oO0Oo

He had a look in his eyes that made everyone want to run. Even she felt a frisson of fear as she approached him, especially since she knew what he would become. Yet, right now, in this time, he was nothing more than a second year, and so she steeled her nerves. "Mr Riddle," she said, softening her words with a smile. "Are you quite alright?"

He started visibly. "P-professor Granger!" he stammered, his face immediately losing its hard, shuttered look. He gave her an easy smile, one which, Hermione noted, didn't reach his eyes. "I'm fine, thank you for asking."

Hermione hummed noncommittally. "Mr Riddle, would you follow me to my office?"

"But Professor Granger, you teach Arithmancy."

She could see how he stiffened when he realized he had just contradicted a professor, and so to put him at ease, Hermione simply smiled. "I do, but I would like to give you some advice."

"With all due respect, I believe that is the duty of my Head of House."

"It is," Hermione said blandly, "but I believe you shall be very interested in my advice. You see, Professor Slughorn is a very capable man, but he is only a man. We witches… we are the most vicious." She glanced at Tom and saw doubt in his eyes. "You shall see, in time," she said. "Now, come along, there are gingersnaps waiting for us."

She led him to her office, and there she gave him advice for how to deal with bullies, a book of minor hexes, and a repertoire of healing spells. Surprise flickered across his face for a split-second, but then he regained control of himself and answered her questions with an infuriating vagueness.

Nevertheless, when Hermione sent him away from her office, it was with a box of gingersnaps and a promise that "her door was always open for him."

Later, Dumbledore would ask her why she had taken such an interest in young Tom Riddle. He would say the boy was dangerous and suggest she leave him alone; however, Hermione was older now, wiser now, and had buried far too many of her friends to listen to him. Instead, she would smile at Dumbledore, then say, "Do not pity the dead, Albus. Pity the living, and, above all, those who live without love. It matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be."

She knew Albus wouldn't understand her, and hopefully he would never understand her. If she befriended Tom Riddle now, showed him kindness in his early years… perhaps he would never become Lord Voldemort. Perhaps that look in his eyes that made everyone want to run would disappear. Perhaps — perhaps he would finally learn to love.


	53. Regulus Black

**House.** Slytherin

 **Category.** Theme

 **Prompt.** [First Line] Seeking shelter from the storm was the first of many mistakes that day.

 **Word Count.** 2626

 **A/N.** Much love to Carolare Scarletus for helping me fix tenses 3

oO0Oo

Seeking shelter from the storm was the first of many mistakes that day. He staggered into the shed, his cloak pulled tight in a vain attempt to protect himself from the blinding rain, and when he pushed his sodden hair out of his eyes, he found a chilling sight.

Of course. His family hadn't been the only one to pay a 'social call' to the Manor at Tom Riddle's request. As was his wont, once they had arrived and paid their social dues, Regulus disappeared onto the grounds. He wasn't sure how he felt about the rising Dark Lord, but he wasn't fool enough to fight. Instead, he had focused on staying away until he was forced to decide.

However, if the stances of the men standing before him and the way Tom Riddle held his wand were any indication, he had stumbled upon something, something that would force him to decide… immediately.

Abraxas Malfoy was the first to act. "Get out of here," he snapped, his eyes flashing as he stepped between Regulus and… whatever it was they had been doing. The other men closed ranks behind him, further shielding their activities, and Regulus began to back away, hoping he wouldn't be hexed as he beat a hasty retreat; however, then Tom Riddle spoke.

"What a _pleasant_ surprise," he said, his voice a sibilant hiss in the quiet room. "Regulus Black, son of Orion and Walburga Black."

Regulus nodded, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. "That I am."

Rodolphus strode forward. "Address your Lord properly," he snarled.

"I apologize, I was not aware—" Regulus's eyes darted around the room, seeking out just who was with him, searching for his father, but his father was not there. He took a deep breath, then knelt before Riddle. "I am Regulus Black, my Lord."

He didn't dare look up, but he could hear the cool condescension in Riddle's voice. "Rise, Regulus Black. You and your family are not yet one of our number; your _faux pas_ shall be excused."

Regulus slowly lifted his head. "May I leave, my Lord?" he said, his voice perfectly neutral.

Something glinted in Riddle's eyes, something dark, dangerous, and… amused? "No, you may not," he said. "There is a storm outside, and besides — it is high time a Black joined the Inner Circle."

"My Lord— that is too high an honor— my Lord—" Regulus stammered, horrified by the sudden turn the conversation had taken. "I do not deserve—"

Yet Riddle had already turned away. "Abraxas, bring her out."

 _Her_. Regulus's stomach dropped. Bloody hell, there was a woman in here besides Bellatrix Black, who he saw standing beside Tom and baring her teeth in a terrible parody of a grin…

Abraxas dragged a weeping woman forward. Her hair was tangled and matted, her dress was ripped and blood splattered, but her eyes were what made Regulus freeze. In her deep, dark eyes, there whorled fear, loss, hurt, and hopelessness, but at the sight of him, a sudden light lit within them. "Please, ser, please" she garbled, "save me, ser, save me—"

"Quiet, filth." Abraxas must have cast a Silencing charm, because although the woman's mouth was still moving, Regulus could hear nothing. " _Incarcerous_." Ropes appeared, binding the woman tight, and then Abraxas pushed her towards him. Regulus caught her on instinct. Her bloodied form was flush against him for a second before he pushed her away, but it had been long enough for him to see her wide, desperate, pleading eyes once again.

"What must I do," he said, holding his wand tight in a white-knuckled grip.

"Torture her, of course." Riddle's voice was casual, as though this were as mundane as pulling on a set of robes. "Then kill her."

At the words, she began to thrash in her bonds. Afraid she would hurt herself, Regulus put her in a full-body bind. "Torture her?" he said. "With what?"

"What do you think." Abraxas Malfoy's words were dripping with scorn.

Regulus swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "The Cruciatus."

"Ten points to Slytherin," Riddle said, the same cool touch of condescension in his voice. "Now cast, Regulus. Not all of us here are immortal."

"Of- of course, my Lord." Regulus raised his wand, doing his best to harden his heart. The muggle woman reminded him of a witch from Hogwarts, a pretty half-blood whom he'd once fancied. But if he wanted to survive this afternoon, he would torture her in cold blood. " _Crucio_."

She jerked, her eyes screwed tight, her mouth gaping in a silent scream, but that was all; she didn't cry, howl, or contort herself into unnatural, impossible position — that is, not until Bellatrix stepped forward and murmured, "Such pain, such beautiful pain… _finite_."

The sound of her screams filled the shed. She writhed on the ground, making quiet _thuds_ as she thrashed. As Regulus watched, he felt self-hatred welling up within him. Sirius had been right. Sirius had been _right_. He should have left when he could. But one glance around the room told him he would never be able to leave, not any longer. His self-hatred swelled within him, and the woman's screams intensified ten-fold.

"Impressive," Abraxas muttered.

Regulus felt the first stirrings of pride at his words before he clamped down on his emotions. He was torturing this woman. She was shrieking, crying, begging for mercy, her eyes wild and pained. Regulus almost moved to end the spell, but then he remembered his audience.

He would have to end this in a different way, then.

" _Avada Kedavra_ ," he said quietly. The jet of poisonous green light struck the woman in the chest and she crumpled to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. From the floor, her empty eyes stared at him, and for a long second, the room was dead silent.

Then Riddle spoke. "I had not ordered you to stop yet."

"My apologies, my Lord." His words were like sandpaper in his mouth, dry and rough and choking him. "May I go? My parents will be expecting me." He gave a short, shallow bow. He needed to get out of this shed. It was shrinking around him, and all he could see was Bellatrix's hungry smile…

Riddle looked at him for a long moment before he finally answered. "You may."

"Thank you, my Lord." Regulus gave another shallow bow, then pushed his way out of the room. The rain was still pouring from the skies as he set out across the grounds, but he couldn't care less. He couldn't have stood another second in that shed. He could still see the woman's helpless, hopeless expression in his mind's eye, and hear her screams ringing in his ears. She was dead now because of him. Her final moments had been of pain and terror because of him.

Regulus shucked off his cloak, throwing it behind him. Some of her blood had stained it. He couldn't— he couldn't— The wind buffeted him from side to side, and the rain lashed at him, stinging his skin and mixing with the tears that ran down his cheeks. He stood there in the rain, head tilted back, exposing his throat to the sky and begging for forgiveness.

He didn't think he'd get it.

When he was soaked through and shivering, Regulus finally began to make his way back to the manor. His father asked him what had happened, but Regulus only shook his head, refusing to elaborate, and that had been all.

Yet that night, Regulus dreamed of the muggle woman, how her screams had echoed in the shed, and how she had crumpled when he'd ended her. He woke in a cold sweat. He shouldn't have killed her. He shouldn't have tortured her. And above all, he should _not_ have sought shelter from the storm in that bloody shed.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Days passed. Every morning, his father said that the bags under Regulus's eyes had only grown, and that he seemed paler than usual; however, very morning Regulus waved off his concern, saying that he might be catching a mild case of dragon pox, but that he'd be fine. He didn't dare say that he still dreamt of a desperate woman writhing in pain who, after a flash of green light, crumpled and stared up at him with empty, empty eyes.

Weeks passed. Regulus had returned to Hogwarts now, and his Housemates treated him differently. They afforded him a touch more respect, especially in _certain_ circles, and Regulus knew that he bought that respect with blood. It still haunted him, and his dreams were chaotic nightmares filled with death which forced him to spell his curtains shut and silence himself before he slept, lest he wake his entire dorm with his gasping sobs.

Months later, he knew he was past the worst of it. He sometimes managed to gain a full night's rest, but he cannot forget the muggle woman splayed lifelessly on the ground before him. Now, however, at the sight of her empty eyes, he did not feel horror or sorrow. Instead, he felt only cold determination. The Dark Lord had ordered him to kill her: if anyone was to blame, it was the Dark Lord, and so Regulus will try to exact his revenge upon him.

He knew it was a fool's errand, but nonetheless he threw himself into research. Among the upper years, tales of the rising Dark Lord (Tom Riddle, he was a Slytherin, and he slept in those rooms!) were whispered — he is immortal, invincible, darker than even Grindelwald, an orphan of unknown origin, the heir to Slytherin — and Regulus drew upon these rumors to further his quest. After all, at the heart of every myth there sits a nugget of truth.

That was how he discovered was how it all begins to click together — the story of Tom Riddle, a poor boy from Wool's orphanage, who managed to attend Hogwarts. Tom Riddle, who had a trophy for "Special Services" to the school. Brave Tom Riddle, who when faced by the fabled monster of the Chamber, did not cower; he exposed Rubeus Hagrid as poor Myrtle's killer and had him expelled. It was a beautiful tale, but Regulus knew that Tom Riddle spoke Parseltongue, and that Tom Riddle was — is — the heir of Slytherin. They were pretty lies, but they were lies nonetheless.

Therefore, Regulus took it upon himself to visit Wool's orphanage. It had long since closed, but he tracked down the matron and had a lovely tea with her. He charmed her with his aristocratic manner and six bottles of gin, and she, in return, told him all he wanted to know. Tom Riddle, she said, her eyes glazed with drink, was a troubled boy. One day, he took two children with him out to a cave, and when they came back, those two were never the same. At her words, Regulus could barely contain his excitement, and once he knew where that cave was located, he cast a gentle _Obliviate_ and left.

Years later, when Regulus had prepared as much he could and knew the end was near, he summoned Kreacher and swore him to secrecy. Together, he and his House Elf apparated to the cave by the sea. The wind was howling and the sea churning when they arrived, but Regulus was undaunted; he fought his way towards the forbidding cliff face and unflinchingly offered the sacrifice.

His blood was dripping down his arm when the mouth of the cave appeared. Kreacher had insisted on healing his young Master, but Regulus hadn't let him. This was his atonement.

After casting about the cave, he found the boat and pushed it into the water, at loth to use too much magic within Riddle's domain. He had scoped out the cave before coming, of course, but one could never be too careful. He motioned Kreacher into the boat, then climbed in as well. "Don't touch the water," he said, his voice quiet.

The boat glided toward the island in the center of the underground lake. In the dim lighting, Regulus could see the outline of a basin sitting atop a stand, and at the sight, a chill went through him. He knew what lay within that basin. Within this cave, protected by blood wards and a lake full of Inferi, sat a horcrux. Before him sat a portion of the Dark Lord's soul.

The boat bumped against the rocky shore. Regulus got out, careful not to touch the water, then helped Kreacher out. The elf looked at him with wide eyes, clearly surprised by the display of affection, but Regulus does not dwell upon his unorthodox actions. By the end of tonight, it wouldn't matter what his mother thought

Within the basin lay a potion. He cast diagnostic spells over it, wondering what it could be, but the results were inconclusive; it is then he spied a goblet sitting on the ground. _Drink_ , it instructed in fine cursive script.

When Kreacher saw him fill the goblet with potion, the House Elf gave a squawk of alarm. "Master Regulus!" he shouted "Do not! Kreacher will drink!"

But Regulus looked him dead in the eye and said clearly, "This is my debt to pay, Kreacher." Then he drank. "You will force me to consume the remainder of the potion. Then, when the basin is empty, you will take the locket and destroy it. Even if you have to leave me behind."

Kreacher protested, but Regulus ignored him. He drank and drank, slowly but steadily draining the basin. So far, there were no adverse effects… and then suddenly, as he was refilling the goblet once again, the muggle woman appeared beside him.

"You killed me," she hissed, and at the sight of her, Regulus's nightmares came flooding back. She had been helpless, desperate, begging — and he'd killed her. She stepped forward and clasped his hands in hers. When she touched him, the goblet filled with blood, and Regulus swallowed hard and began to throw it away; however, she was stronger than him, and she forced it down his throat, sobbing as he chokes around the salty, metallic taste. Then she refilled it, shouting, "Drink!," as she poured it into his mouth.

He fought her, and at one point he succeeded in throwing her off, but in doing so she dropped the goblet over him, staining his robes and hands a deep red. At the feeling of her cold, slimy blood slowly sliding down his skin and mixing with his own blood which was still welling out of his forearm, Regulus shuddered and redoubled his efforts to escape. She succeeded in pouring the last of her congealed lifeblood down his throat, but when she got up and peered into the basin with wide eyes, he stumbled towards the water, only one thought in his mind: get away, wash away, wash away the blood.

He scrubbed at his hands, his nails almost drawing blood, so violent was his desire to get clean. He almost didn't notice the first body floating to the surface. It regarded him with cold, empty eyes, and he threw himself back; however, a cold, clammy hand clasped his ankle, pulling him under. Regulus thrashed, fighting his way back to the surface to take one last desperate breath and hear Kreacher's anguished cry — "Master Regulus!" — before the long-dead bodies dragged him under once more.

As he struggled, fighting cold, empty corpses and knowing that here, he shall die, he was comforted by the knowledge that Kreacher had the horcrux and would destroy it. He may have killed the muggle woman, but perhaps by sacrificing himself to destroy the Dark Lord, he can make amends.


	54. Gin 'n Tonic

**House.** Slytherin

 **Category.** Drabble

 **Prompt.** [Word] Sharp.

 **Word Count.** 336

oO0Oo

She can't forget him. He had been her dearest friend, her closest confidante. No one else, not even her future husband, will ever know her so well. Even now, years later, she cannot forget how it felt to be two minds, one body, his soul pressed intimately against her own. His presence still lingers; sometimes, she curses him, but other times, she yearns for him. Memories of him haunt her. When she lies alone at night, restless and wondering what her life has become, she thinks of him.

Tom Riddle. Beautiful, dangerous, _destructive_ Tom Riddle. Ginny still remembers the first time she saw him. She'd thought he was an angel, and how wrong she'd been.

Unbidden, his likeness appears in her mind's eye. He looks as though he were made of cut glass: the shadows accentuate his high cheekbones, his slanting jaw, his taut frame. Then, he steps forward. "Good evening, Ginerva," he purrs, lifting her hand and kissing the inside of her wrist. "It is a pleasure to see you again."

She swallows hard. He has a sharp, silver tongue, and he knows how his words wound her. It has been lonely living without him, but he knows as well as her that she cannot give him what he so desires. "Tom," she snaps, snatching her hand back. "Leave me alone."

"Petulant today, aren't you?" he chuckles, fixing her with his piercing gaze.

Ginny doesn't answer. He is Tom Riddle, and she knows that those who play with knives always bleed, in the end. Tom is like a knife; in fact, he is a knife which people beg to cut themselves with. She knows all too well the beauty which lies in blood. This time, however, she won't let herself fall.

She looks up, meeting his gaze. That is her fatal mistake. He is Tom Riddle and he is all sharp, painful edges, but in his eyes there burns a deep, dark fire, and almost against her will Ginny finds herself drowning in him again.


	55. Nobody's Home

**House.** Slytherin

 **Category.** Short

 **Prompt.** [Prompt] The lights are on but nobody's home.

 **Word Count.** 757

 **A/N.** Thank you Queen for this _fantabulous_ idea 3

oO0Oo

She walked up the front walk, her wand drawn. It had been Frank and Alice's anniversary, and so she had agreed to watch Neville while they partied the night away; however, it was now nearing 4 AM, and they still hadn't returned. Normally, they never left Neville overnight without prior warning… Augusta was worried something had happened to them.

As their house came into view, she forced herself to calm down. The lights were still on, and so her son and daughter-in-law had likely just been out later than they had originally planned. After all, You-Know-Who was dead now, vanquished by the Potter child. She had been silly to get so worked up. As she knocked at the front door, she could hear the noise echoing throughout the entire home. She waited out there on the front porch, her wand still drawn, her mind racing on overdrive. What if they weren't okay? What if there had been an attack? What if they hadn't come home— but now, their lights were on...

Augusta waited and waited. The night air was cold, and there was a cold breeze blowing. The stars provided a faint light, and the front yard was illuminated; however, when she raised her eyes to the heavens, she noticed with a shiver that there was a full moon in the sky. That did it. Even though it was rather rude to enter someone's home uninvited, she unlocked the door (which opened far more easily than it should have…) and stepped inside.

The inside of the house was chaos. Chunks of mauled furniture littered the floor. Shards of glass glittered amid the ruin. Blood stained the walls.

"Oh goodness," Augusta whispered, her eyes wide as she stared at the devastation spread out before her. The house was entirely silent. "Frank? Alice?"

No one answered.

Now even more uneasy, she cast _homenum revelio_. According to the spell, there were two people in the kitchen — two living people — and so she hurried upstairs, her wand still held before her. For all she knew, it could be Rodolphus Lestrange and his demented brother lying in wait.

When she entered the kitchen, she saw no one. Then she walked around the counter and saw the bodies of Frank and Alice lying on the floor. Frank lay still with blood trickling down his torso to join the steadily growing pool beneath him; meanwhile, blood was dribbling down Alice's chin, and she was jerking slightly. For one terrible moment, Augusta thought her son was already dead, for there was no way anyone could have lost this much blood and lived. He lay at an unnatural angle, one leg bent beneath him and his head cocked much too far to the right; yet, when she drew closer, she saw that he was still breathing. He was alive. Tears started to blur her vision as she crouched down beside him.

"I'm here now,"' she said, casting a spell to bind his wounds and slow his bleeding. "It's going to be okay."

He didn't answer, but Augusta hadn't expected him to. Relieved that his condition seemed to have stabilized, she now turned to her daughter-in-law. "Alice?" she said, slowly shaking her arm. There was barely a mark upon her. "Alice?"

But she didn't answer, either.

"Alice, are you okay?" Augusta shook her again, more insistently this time. Alice's breathing was steady and strong, and for all the world she looked as though she could be fast asleep. Yet, she lay there like the dead, and Augusta felt the first stirrings of worry and fear. "Alice?" her skin was warm to touch. "Alice?" Panicked, now, Augusta picked up her wand. " _Renervate!_ "

Alice's eyes flew open, but they were empty and unseeing. On her face there stretched a rictus of a grin, and she began to laugh, a cold, uncaring sound.

Augusta stumbled backwards. She glanced from her clearly insane daughter-in-law to Frank, then saw with cold clarity just what had occured. Frank lay there, a private smile on his lips, relaxed as though in slumber; before she had woken Alice, Alice had looked exactly like Frank. Someone had attacked them; someone had done this to them. Augusta felt her heart constrict as she gazed at her son and daughter-in-law. They were so young, so strong, and had had their entire future before them…Now, however, they were both lost in their own little dreamlands. They were both alive, but their minds had flown.

It was just like their house.

The lights were on, but no one was home.


	56. Jenny Wilkins

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Short

 **Prompt:** [Speech] "I've been here before." / "Stop lying."

 **Word Count:** 1200

 **A/N:** Thank you Emma for helping me come up with names ;)

oO0Oo

"Hullo, Tom."

Slowly lifting his gaze from his camouflaged copy of _Secrets of the Darkest Art,_ Tom met the eyes of the girl who dared interrupt him. After seven long years spent building his reputation, few dared bother him; however, he quickly recognised this girl as the American transfer student. Her red-orange hair was quite distinctive.

"Miss Wilkins," he said, closing his book with a snap and placing it beside the marmalade. He could feel Dumbledore's eyes on him, watching him from the High Table. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, I'd quite like a place to sit," she replied, her eyes darting towards Abraxas Malfoy, who sat besides Tom. "It's quite crowded, and I do have to eat before class. If my stomach rumbles during lessons, I doubt the professor would be pleased." She chuckled, her entire face lighting up and inviting everyone in the general vicinity to laugh along; however, the sight unsettled Tom. It seemed strangely familiar… somehow, he knew this girl had spent hours in the mirror practicing her smile.

"Abraxas, would you make room for the Miss Wilkins?"

"Of-of course, Tom." Abraxas hurriedly shuffled aside, clearing a space for the girl.

Jenny smiled. "Thank you." She sat down primly, glancing down towards _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ as she did so. "And Tom, please call me Jenny. After all, it cannot be simple coincidence that you are reading one of my favorite books. We have very similar… literary interests."

His eyes flickered down to his tome, checking the illusion he'd woven over its cover. It was still there. "You enjoy _The Heart of Darkness_?" he asked.

"Oh, I absolutely love it," she replied, reaching over to pluck the book from him. At her touch, the illusion rippled, and when she looked up at him, she wore a self-satisfied smirk. "I believe there is much we could learn from _The Heart of Darkness_ ; it is a pity the Hogwarts curriculum is so… limited."

Tom paused, taking a second look at Jenny Wilkins. Brown, intelligent eyes sparkled at him. "An interesting stance for the American transfer student," he remarked. "May I escort you to your first class, Miss Wilkins?"

"Of course," she replied, taking a croissant and wrapping it in a napkin before sliding it into her book bag. "I believe Slughorn's Advanced Potions class begins in ten minutes?"

"It does," Tom replied. "You seem quite familiar with him already."

"Well, he answered all of my questions." She shrugged. "He also suggested I speak with you. Said you were a 'model student'." She placed special emphasis on the last words, her lips curling as though she were sharing a private joke.

Tom supposed it was rather laughable that Slughorn still thought him a model student, especially after he had asked him about Horcruxes, but Jenny Wilkins shouldn't know that. The unease that had been prickling along the back of his neck increased ten-fold. Keeping his face politely interested, he held out his arm.

She took it, her bearing as regal as a queen's. Then, like a matched set, they made their way to the dungeons.

Along the way, Tom murmured, "Miss Wilkins, although I would normally hesitate to broach such a subject, I feel I ought to warn you. Professor Slughorn's classes are often very long." He gestured to the girls' lavatory.

"Oh, thank you," she replied, a faint blush rising to her cheeks as she let go of his arm and entered the bathroom.

Tom watched the door swing shut behind her, then the polite smile which graced his features disappeared like smoke in the wind. After slowly counting to ten, he cast strong wards over the area and followed Jenny Wilkins into Moaning Myrtle's lavatory. Her behaviour at breakfast had been… worrisome.

Yet when he entered, he was met with the sight of Jenny Wilkins standing between him and the magical sink, her wand held in a sure, confident grip, her brown eyes never leaving his. "Are you planning to open the Chamber?" she said, her voice calm and quiet in the empty room. "This is the entrance."

Tom stiffened. "You don't know that."

"But I do," she said in reply, shaking her head slightly, as though in mock-disappointment. "Really, Tom. I've been here before."

But she was an American transfer student. "Stop lying," he ordered. "You won't fool me. _Legilimens_!" He hurled himself into her mind, clearly catching her by surprise. For a split second, images flashed through his mind: a motley group in the ravaged countryside, a desperate girl with red-orange hair and brown eyes, quick snippets of conversation: "I know him best— Let me— No horcruxes— I can succeed— I need to do this—" Everyone's eyes were on her, on him, and then she took the Time-Turner with trembling hands and slowly began to turn back time… a strange sensation began to envelop her, and it seemed almost as if her body was not quite her own… and then Tom was evicted from her mind with a strength he had never encountered before.

"Wha-what was that?" he spat, wiping away the blood which dribbled down his chin. In the intense slew of emotions and images, he must have bit his tongue. "I've never felt anything so strong— you—" Then he realized that she, too, was reeling from the force of his Legilimens. This was his chance. _Open_ , he hissed _._ The sink disappeared in a whirl of magic and the castle groaned as it rearranged itself. _Come._

He heard the faintest scrape of scales on stone as the Basilisk heeded his call, and Tom smirked. No matter what happened, he would undoubtedly have the upperhand. Jenny Wilkins was no Parselmouth.

"Who are you?" he said harshly, casting a wordless _expelliarmus_ and deftly catching her wand. "And what are you doing here?"

"Why Tom, you don't recognize me?" she asked, her brown eyes defiant. "I know I am changed, but our mannerisms—"

"Who. Are. You." he growled, jabbing his wand into her throat and twisting it, digging it into her skin.

Yet she seemed entirely unaffected. "My, how rash and impulsive you are, rather like a Gryffindor—"

With a snarl of impotent rage, Tom spun to the dark gaping hole in the wall and hissed, _Attack._ If she insisted on playing games, then he would show her… The basilisk slithered from the gloom, its great yellow eyes glimmering in the faint light. Tom glanced at Jenny, to see if she were cowed, but to his surprise she was still standing, proud and confident, her stance relaxed… almost as if she had expected this.

That was the final straw. _Attack_ , he ordered angrily. _Kill her, feast on her remains._

The basilisk coiled, its tongue flickering in the air as it prepared to strike…

And then Jenny hissed, _No._

Tom froze. When he spun, shocked, he saw that her brown eyes were now pitch black. She turned to him, and he saw a smirk — a familiar smirk, one which he normally saw in the mirror — on her face. "Hullo, Tom," she said, her inflection unsettlingly familiar. She sounded like… him. "Little Ginny and her precious Order brought me back. We've much to discuss."


	57. Secrets Men Aren't Meant to Know

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** drabble

 **Prompt:** [Word] Secret

 **Word Count:** 473

oO0Oo

Pansy leaned forward. "What do you want? Gin, rum, vodka… you name it."

"Just water," Astoria answered.

"Please," Pansy scoffed. "We're at a muggle bar where they have _everything._ We're getting a _real_ drink." She turned to the bartender. "Two negronis." The drinks appeared almost instantaneously, and Pansy shoved one into Astoria's hands. "Bottoms up."

But Astoria gingerly placed it down on the counter. "Pansy, I need to talk to you."

"Drink, then. It's probably about Draco, and I can't deal with him until we're smashed."

Astoria tucked a stray hair behind her ear "It _is_ about Draco… but I can't drink."

Pansy scowled and was about to speak when a sudden light appeared in her eyes. She leaned back, a speculative smirk on her face. "Oh," she said. " _Oh_." She grinned, like a cat with the cream. "He's only your fiancé… but does Draco know yet?"

Astoria bit her lip. "No, not yet," she answered. "It's so early, and I'm afraid to get his hopes up. The war— the war—"

Pansy reached over and squeezed Astoria's hand, her face utterly serious for once. "I know," she said quietly. "Slytherin wasn't spared, either."

Astoria swallowed hard and nodded. "I don't know if I can carry the child to term," she said. "Carrow— he— I'm scared he broke me, Pansy… it still hurts, all these years later." Her hand ghosted over her lower stomach.

"It's okay," Pansy said, squeezing Astoria's hand even tighter. "It's going to be okay."

She gave her a watery smile. "Thanks, Pansy. Do you think— do you think I should tell him?"

Pansy ran her tongue over her teeth, then shook her head. "He's lost enough family. Don't tell Draco until you're certain it'll work out."

"Tell me what?" A smooth, amused male voice interrupted.

Pansy turned to find Draco standing behind them. "Nothing that you need to know," she answered, plunking her nails against her glass before taking another sip. "This doesn't concern you."

"Oh, it's a secret, huh?" he said, seating himself at the bar and signalling the bartender for a drink. He turned and grinned at Astoria, who had shrunk in on herself. "I can keep secrets."

"It's a secret men aren't meant to know," Pansy said with a small frown. "Now leave Astoria alone."

"No." Astoria spoke up now, to Pansy's surprise. "He's my fiancé, he deserves to know. Draco, I'm— I'm pregnant."

"P-pregnant?" he stammered before falling backwards in a dead faint. He would have cracked his head on the floor if Pansy hadn't cast two well-placed levitating charms: one on him, and one on his drink. As she floated his drink to her, she commented wryly, "And that's why it was a secret. Men aren't meant to know so early."

"Oh, hush." Astoria was fussing over her fiancé. "Just help me get him home, Pansy."


	58. Daphne & Harry

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Theme

 **Prompt:** [Pairing type] Former Enemies.

 **Word Count:** 2274

oO0Oo

She has been surrounded by green her entire life. Last year, although she found no pride in her House, she found safety and protection; however, now that Harry Potter has defeated the Dark Lord, her green tie marks her as a defeated enemy. The looks she gets in the halls from the Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, and self-righteous Gryffindors turn her stomach, but she keeps her face shuttered, never showing them just how much their pointed snubs hurt.

Still, as she stares in the mirror and knots her tie, she can't help thinking just how patently unfair it is that she has to return to Hogwarts. She knows — everyone knows — that Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ronald Weasley weren't forced to come back. But every Slytherin, even if their families did not support the Dark Lord, were ordered back for "proper instruction". Anger flashes through her, and her hands shake, mussing the tie; with pursed lips, Daphne loosens the tie and starts to knot it once again.

When she is finally presentable, she joins her younger sister and they walk together to the Great Hall. Along the way, Pansy tries to join them, but Daphne sends her away with quiet scorn — showing solidarity with the woman who screamed for Harry Potter's death, no matter how close they were in previous years, is a terrible idea. Upon entering the Great Hall, she sits near Blaise and pointedly ignores Draco Malfoy's greeting.

She can't help but notice the deep green tablecloth draped over their table. It marks them as Slytherins, and for a moment she can't help but hate it. It's a terrible dull green, made dull with the passage of the years and the thousands of students who have eaten over it. More than that, though, it reminds her of the expectations that weigh upon her: get good marks, marry well, bear pureblood children, and preserve the family name. As of late, the last task has fallen heavily upon her, and she finds herself wanting to chafe against its restraints — she may be a Slytherin, but her family did not take the Mark. They gave the bare minimum, enough to protect their daughters and nothing more. Yet the Greengrasses are nevertheless lumped with the Malfoys and Lestranges, a fact which brings a bitter taste to her mouth.

"Hey, you okay?" She looks over to find Blaise looking rather concerned. "You were scowling… you want some eggs?"

She pauses. "Sure," she finally says. "Eggs sound great. Thanks."

While passing her the platter of eggs, he says in a low undertone, "Potter's watching you again, Daph."

Her eyes flicker to the side, and sure enough, out of the corner of her eye, she can see Potter staring at her. "Ugh," she groans. "How embarrassing. I wish he'd stop."

Blaise raises an eyebrow. "You're welcome for the eggs," he says, straightening back up and putting the platter of eggs back on the table. "Are you ready for Astronomy tonight?"

Disconcerted by the sudden topic change, Daphne takes a moment to respond. "Astronomy? We're mapping Ophiuchus tonight, aren't we?"

"We are," Blaise reponds. "And it's double Astronomy." He tilts his head towards the Gryffindor table, to where Harry Potter is sitting and talking with Hermione Granger while Ginny Weasley glares.

"Ah." Daphne nods. "I'll consider it, Blaise. Thanks for the eggs. I've got some Charms work to finish — see you in Transfiguration?" With that she leaves the Great Hall and makes her way back to her dorm, her mind humming with half-formed plans.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

That night, after she's drawn Ophiuchus three times and most of the class has already crept back into their dorms and fallen asleep, she finally musters the courage to confront Harry. "Potter," she says, making him jerk and glance up from his star map. "We need to talk."

"Greengrass," he says back. "Can it wait ten seconds? I'm so close to finishing my Ophiuchus."

She nods and settles on the stone floor, watching him work. Of course, ten seconds turns into ten minutes, which turns into an hour — when he finally finishes, he has to shake her awake, and no one's up in the Astronomy Tower except the two of them. "Where's Sinistra?" she asks.

"She left. Said I was taking too long, and that we were mature enough to be up here alone. What was it you want to tell me?"

Daphne bit her lip. "I wanted to ask you—" _Might as well be hanged for a dragon as an egg_. "Why do you stare at me?"

He blinks at her, and in that completely inappropriate moment, Daphne can't help but notice how beautiful his green eyes are. They shine like emeralds in the starlight, so bright and full of life, so unlike the dull green of her life, that she barely hears his mumbled answer: "Well… I sorta fancy you."

Startled, Daphne blurts, "What?"

He flushes. "I said I fancy you."

"Oh." This casts the entire situation in a new light. He's the Chosen One, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Savior of the Wizarding World, yet in this moment, _she_ , Daphne Greengrass, whose family name is virtually worthless, has all the power. "You… fancy me?"

"Look, I've said it twice and I'd rather not say it again."

"But Mister Potter," she says, looking up at him through her lashes, "they _do_ say third time's the charm."

He chuckles, though he's still watching her warily. "And what happens if I say it a third time?" he asks.

Daphne bites her lip. "Well… I might just admit to fancying you back."

His eyes go wide, and in them, Daphne can see herself reflected back at her. "Are you serious?" he says, slack-jawed with amazement.

"What do you think?" She regards him with a secretive half-smile.

"I— I don't know—"

Getting to her feet, Daphne reaches over and runs her fingers over his jawline and presses a kiss to his throat. "Now what do you think?" she murmurs, her voice husky.

He swallows hard. "I think you're trouble… but you're my kind of trouble." He reaches out and pulls her against him and she lets herself get lost in his voice, his skin, his lips, and his burning heat.

When they finally pull apart, Harry gasps, "Daphne, will you be my girlfriend?"

She smiles. Her, Daphne Greengrass, dating Harry Potter. "Of course," she says, pushing back his unruly hair to reveal his lightning bolt scar. "Do you even have to ask?"

He grins sheepishly, then he's snogging her again, and above them shine the Northern Lights — cold and cruel in their beauty, yet majestic and awe-inspiring in their ferocity. At the sight, Daphne smirks: they dance against the dark night sky, illuminating it; yet, in the end, they always fade.

But her relationship with Harry won't fade. At least, not until she restores her family name… although she certainly wouldn't mind marrying Harry Potter. He'd certainly be more bearable than Theo, Blaise, Draco, or that odd Ravenclaw Stephen Cornfoot.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The following weeks are a blur of lessons, exams, and pointless assignments; Daphne spends her time on Harry's arm or curled against his side as they study for NEWTs that no longer seem to matter.

However, those happy days fade all too quickly...

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Slytherin slag," Ginny Weasley hisses as she passes in the halls.

Daphne ignores the girl, just as she ignores everyone else who has seen fit to comment upon her virtue, moral character, and House affiliation. In all honesty, it isn't that terrible, for it isn't as though she particularly cares what Ginny Weasley thinks of her, while most of Slytherin is impressed that she's managed to snag the Boy-Who-Lived as a boyfriend and watch with jealous eyes, no doubt imagining how her relationship is improving her family's good name.

Still, she can see how Harry is buckling under the casual condemnation. He isn't overly affected by the tawdry newspaper articles, but Daphne can tell that the Weasleys' disapproval is hitting him hard. They've always treated him like an unofficial son, and Daphne knows the Weasley matriarch has always dreamed of his marrying her daughter and making it official.

Come to think of it, she only ever sees him with Granger and Longbottom now, and sometimes that Lovegood girl. He looks tired and sad, and it seems some of the fire of his eyes has gone out, which, in turn, makes her sad. He shouldn't have to bear more crosses: he's already suffered enough pain for a dozen lifetimes.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

They meet in a broom closet, and as they snog, Daphne thinks she sees some of that old light return to his eyes. He's enthusiastic, excited even, and for a second she lets herself melt into him, and get lost in the lusty haze.

Sometimes, she feels the only time they're truly together is when they're snogging; however, she pushes the matter from her mind, and instead focuses upon the heavenly feel of his hands upon her bare stomach, thinking, _We'll cross that bridge when we get to it._

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

When her family's owl lands on the breakfast table, Daphne's eyes go wide. "Fuck," she hisses before she untying the note.

 _Daphne,_

 _While dating the Chosen One may yet restore our family's name, the press is ripping you to shreds. If he tires of you, it may be difficult to find suitable husband. Please, daughter, do not do anything you might regret._

 _Anthony and Heather Greengrass_

Daphne sets the paper alight with a mumbled _incendio_. Nevertheless, her parents' words echo in her mind… is her relationship with him worth the pain?

She begins avoiding him, seeking time alone to think this through.

The solitude is pleasant, though. She hadn't realized what a burden a boyfriend was until she was without him.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Is it terrible that when she sees him, excuses start tumbling from her lips? "I'm sorry I wasn't at the Pitch, I had Transfiguration work, and I won't be able to go to Hogsmeade with you next weekend. I'm too busy."

"Too busy," he says slowly, so slowly that it seems he is tasting the way those words linger on his tongue. If his face is anything to go by, they don't taste good. "You're too busy for your boyfriend?"

"I know," Daphne replies. "But I am. See you around!" She bustles away before he can say anything else.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Harry," she says, looking up to see him waiting for her in the halls. "I'm sorry I can't stay and talk, I'm going to be late for Herbology…"

"Daphne." His tone brooks no argument. "Please. Why do you keep saying goodbye?"

"I—" She stands stock still, not knowing what he meant and at the same time knowing exactly he meant with icy cold clarity. "I— I—" She swallows hard, and then says, not daring meet his eyes but with a fake bright smile, "I'm not sure I know what you're talking about."

He shakes his head, watching her far too close for comfort. His bright green eyes are on the edge of her peripheral vision. "I think you know exactly what I'm talking about."

"Harry, please not now. How about—" she casts about wildly "— how about we talk about this tomorrow night. My family has a cottage in Norway and we can go out there and watch the Northern Lights. How does that sound?"

He looks unconvinced, but he nods anyways. "Tomorrow night. But you'd best not stand me up again."

She gives him a tight smile, then hurries away.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The Portkey is easy to procure when it's for Harry Potter. In fact, it's startlingly simple to whisk the two of them away for a weekend — there are certain advantages to dating the Savior of the Wizarding World. Once they get to the cottage, they climb a nearby hill, and then Harry summons a blanket, which he spreads over the grass. "After you, Daphne."

She smiles, even if it it tinged with sadness. "Thanks, Harry."

"No problem," he says, sitting down beside her. "Now, what was it you wanted to tell me?"

"Can it wait until after the Lights?"

He frowns. "I think we should discuss this now. The sooner, the better."

Gnawing at her lip, Daphne replies, "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

She sighs. "Harry… this isn't working. I can't do this anymore. It's not fair to either of us — I'm calling this off." She turns away from him, hot tears running down her cheeks, but he grabs her wrist.

"No," he says lowly. His green eyes are almost glowing in the starlight. "You can't — we can't— we don't have to break up, Daphne!"

She swallows hard. "No, Harry… we do." Wrenching out of his grip, she begins to run back to the cottage. She's aware that the Northern Lights have started above her, but she doesn't stop — with a flick of her wrist, a fire appears in the fireplace, into which she tosses a pinch of Floo powder.

She cannot help her tears, but she knows that _this_ is how it was meant to be. After all, her entire life has been a dead dull green — she is a Greengrass and a Slytherin — and Harry, with his bright green eyes, could never be the one for her.

She steps into the dull green flames and whispers, "Goodbye, Harry."


	59. Lyall Lupin

**House:** Slytherin

 **Year:** stand-in for 7th

 **Category:** Standard

 **Prompt:** [Word] Distinguished

 **Word Count:** 1289

oO0Oo

The full moon hung in the sky, and the five year-old Remus Lupin stared at it through his window. "Isn't it pretty, Da?"

Lyall Lupin only scowled in reply. "Don't speak about what you don't understand," he snapped. At his curt reply, his son's face fell, and so his wife moved to Remus's side.

"Don't worry, Remus," she said, ruffling his hair and pulling him away from the window. "Your dad's just been having a hard time at work. Now, it's past your bedtime."

"But I'm not sleepy yet…" Remus protested, rubbing his eyes as his mother tucked him into bed. "Not sleepy at all, mum!"

Hope Lupin pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Good night, darling." Then she and her husband shut the room, Lyall casting a Locking charm on the door. She watched him do so, frowning; when he'd put his wand away, she asked, "Lyall, must you?"

Lyall ran a hand through his hair. "Yes. You know I'm trying to make a name for our family. I'm trying to make us people who _matter_ , people who are distinguished in the Wizarding World. I won't have Remus dealing with pureblood snobs and their ridiculous blood purity like I had to." He scowled. "But Hope, there's a lot of tension at work right now with the werewolf legislation I'm trying to pass, and I just want him to be safe." His expression softened. "I'm sure you understand, love."

"Well, hopefully nothing will happen." Hope twined her fingers with his. "You ready for bed?"

"Almost," Lyall answered. "Let me check the wards one last time."

"Okay, love," she answered, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before pushing an errant strand of hair behind her ear and walking away. "I'll be waiting in the bedroom."

Lyall watched her leave with a smile on his face, then went outside to check on the wards. The night was dark, the full moon hung in the air, and the air was still, as though the world was waiting for something: however, the wards seemed to be in good condition. Lyall checked them quickly, but before he finished the last one, he suddenly had the unsettling feeling that he was being watched.

He spun, but there was nothing, only darkness and the quiet rustle of trees in the wind. Nevertheless, unsettled, he hurried back to the house, but as he lay down beside his wife, he suddenly remembered that he hadn't finished checking the last ward, and that ward had seemed… weak.

And then a blood-curdling shriek pierced the air.

Lyall grabbed his wand and raced towards the screams. It was a the night of the full moon, and those screams had come from Remus's room.

But he was too late.

His son lay crumpled on the floor, his blood seeping out from countless wounds and staining the carpet beneath him. "No—" Lyall gasped, kneeling beside Remus. He gently turned him over, so that he could see his son's face as he died, but then he saw the gaping bite wound in Remus's shoulder.

Greyback hadn't killed his son. Instead, he'd done something far worse.

Remus was a werewolf, now.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Later that night, Lyall stood beside a small, child-sized hospital cot. The Medi-witch had just withdrawn after telling him and his wife the dreadful diagnosis, and although he knew he was acting mad, he didn't care. This— this was too much. "My son— a monster?" he snarled. "No— I can't— I can't—" He ran a hand desperately through his hair. Remus. His son. A werewolf. A filthy mongrel. Greyback had done this to spite him. He just knew it.

Lyall stiffened. He wouldn't cave to those creatures. Not now, not ever.

"A wolf," he said the word with acute distaste. Hope stifled a sob, but Lyall continued, "is not welcome here. He leaves tonight."

Hope stared at him. Then, after a long moment of eerie silence, she said calmly, "No. He doesn't. Our _son_ will _not_ be _thrown out_ because of _you_ , Lyall!"

He crossed the room in two strides. "What did you say?" he growled.

Yet her eyes only flashed as she said defiantly, "Remus will not leave. And if he does, then I go with him."

"Ha!" Lyall scoffed, not even bothering to hide his disdain. "You'd be dead, or worse, changed into one of them, within a month! You're a Muggle! What can you do for him?"

"Can you hear what you're saying?" she shouted, completely ignoring his logic. "He's out son! And I can treat him as my son, she answered. He hasn't changed, Lyall, not underneath. You Wizards think this changes everything, but it doesn't. He's still a sweet kid underneath it all, and more than that, he's _our_ child."

Lyall rubbed his eyes. "We brought him into this world… and we can take him out of it."

"No," his wife said firmly. "It's our duty to care for him. So Remus won't be leaving and that's final." She walked over to him and laid her head on his chest, murmuring, "We should go see Remus now. He's probably woken up and is terrified."

But Lyall, wanting the moment to last longer, protested, "I gave him six sleeping draughts! He shouldn't wake up for a week!"

His wife chuckled. "Yes, but the enhanced metabolism of a lycanthrope means he'll awaken in a few minutes."

Stringing his fingers with her, Lyall smiled down at her as they walked to Remus's room. "Sometimes I forget just how much you've read in the past month over werewolves."

"Well, I needed to be prepared." Hope shrugged. She then pressed a kiss to Remus's forehead. "Would you like a moment with him?" she asked her husband

"Yes please," he answered

She left quietly, and then he knelt by Remus's bedside and took one small heavily-bandaged hand in his own. He ran his eyes over the mass of cuts bruises and scrapes and sighed. Then, rubbing small circles in the hand within his own, he began.

"I'm sorry, son. I should never have considered getting rid of you. I make no claims to being a great man, but any man has an obligation to his family. It does not matter how distinguished a man is at the office if he has no honor in the other aspects of his life. I apologize and ask your forgiveness, and tell you your mother is a wonderful woman…"

Beneath him, the small figure stirred and said in a sleep-laced voice, "Da?"

"I'm here son," Lyall answered immediately.

"I'm so tired."

His son was a werewolf. It tore him up inside, but it was true. Lyall could see the bloody gashes Greyback's claws had ripped in his son's flesh, and the gaping bite on Remus's shoulder… it was impossible to forget what that monster had done. "Try to sleep."

"Da— I— I'm scared. I don't know what to do."

"I—I'm sorry, Remus. There's nothing we can do." Lyall rested a stiff hand on his son's shoulder in an attempt to comfort the boy. "There's nothing at all."

He watched the boy — his son — fall into a restless, uneasy sleep. Then Lyall left the room. He couldn't bear to watch his son any longer. He could not abandon his son, for that was no right — but with Remus a werewolf, he would never get his next promotion. He knew how the Ministry worked.

He'd been given his chance to make the Lupin name a distinguished one once again, but he had taken too many risks, and now it was doomed to fall into obscurity once again.

But Remus was his son, and he would do what he could for the boy was suffering because of him.


	60. Frank Longbottom

**House:** Slytherin

 **Year:** stand-in for 7th

 **Category:** Short

 **Prompt:** [Speech] "Name told me to. So I did." (Name = James)

 **Word Count:** 1511

oO0Oo

It felt good to be lost, for once in his life. He was striking out in a new direction; he was shedding his bumbling self and gaining the attention of his peers. He was changing himself, but he was earning the attention of Alice Marchbanks. Maybe he would lose who he was, but he'd always been quiet, steady Frank Longbottom. Alice hadn't noticed him then; in those days, he'd been lucky if she even smiled at him in the hallway, because most of the time, she would catch a glimpse of him, stare at the ground, and then hurry past, as if she couldn't get out of his presence quickly enough.

It had hurt. He'd begun avoiding her, or at least avoiding her as much as he could while still harboring a massive crush on her.

Yet, he must have been acting like a lovelorn fool, because then James Potter had pulled him aside. "Mate," the fifth year had said, clapping Frank on the back in an overly familiar manner, "You're obsessed. But you've got to go for it. Birds don't like shrinking pansies — they want a man who knows what he wants and isn't afraid to show it."

Frank looked at James, then raised an eyebrow. "Because that's worked so well with Lily."

"Hey, what I have with Lily should be considered a 'work in progress'. But I'm much better with birds than you, Frank. You might be a sixth year, but my advice is good! At least give it a try!" James crossed his arms, then scoffed, "We all know you're bloody obsessed with her for some reason."

Frank narrowed his eyes at James. "Fine," he finally said. James _did_ get on famously with most the Gryffindor witches, and even ones from other Houses. Merlin, he'd even seen some _Slytherins_ praising his Quidditch prowess and fluttering their eyelashes at him! He didn't think Alice would be interested in that type of guy, but bloody hell, even after the past four years spent working up the courage to talk to her and ask her to go to Hogsmeade with him, he'd gotten nowhere. Maybe he just needed to try another angle of attack.

And that was how, a week later, he found himself sitting between Alice and her friends, laughing about the frequency at which shepherd's pie was being served in the Great Hall, and how Alanna's boyfriend couldn't stand it, so he always snuck to the kitchens on those nights, but tonight he'd found Professor McGonagall sitting in there drinking sherry, her pointed witch's hat sitting crooked on her head. It was marvellous fun. After four long years, he was finally being noticed by the girl of his dreams. Now, with his confident facade, he was able to talk to her without stumbling over his own words. With this false confidence of his, he could wink at her, flirt with her, and she would blush and smile at him. His plan was working.

But it wasn't him.

Suddenly uneasy, Frank stood up. "I — I've got something — something important — that I forgot to do," he stammered, grabbing his book bag and hurrying away from Alice. He didn't know what it was, but suddenly his stomach was tied in knots, and he didn't think he could keep pretending a second longer.

As he made his hasty retreat, he caught sight of James watching him leave, a frown on his face. That made Frank frown, too. James Potter liked to meddle, and right now, Frank wasn't sure if he wanted any more if the boy's well-meaning advice. For some reason, it didn't seem right to him. When Frank got back to the Common Room, he pulled out a thick Arithmancy tome, hoping it would keep the boy away when he came up after dinner.

Sadly, after an hour of quiet reading, he was interrupted by a self-important cough and a declaration: "Frank, you've got to be strong to get that witch. Alice can be bloody terrifying, but somehow she's the woman of your dreams, and she _does_ deserve a man who can match _her_ dreams." James seemed completely serious, but Frank was starting to doubt his ability to give relationship advice. At least, good relationship advice. After all, just that morning he'd heard Lily telling her friends that she absolutely loathed James Potter, and she had sounded like she'd meant it.

"Yeah, I'll keep that in mind," Frank replied, grabbing his bookbag yet again. "Sorry, but I've got an essay for McGonagall to finish tonight, I'll be up in my dorms."

"Sure." James glanced over towards the fireplace, where Lily was sitting with a Herbology textbook. Perhaps he thought he was being subtle, but to Frank it was clear as day that James was head over heels for Lily Evans. "Good luck, Frank."

"You too, James." _And you're going to need it a lot more than me_ , Frank silently added as he left James to compose another elaborate way to ask Lily to Hogsmeade — he had recognized that light in James's eyes, and he only hoped Lily would go easy on his well-meaning yet misguided friend. Just as he hoped Alice would go easy on _him_.

If a man couldn't be true to himself, who _could_ he be true to? What woman would want a man who hid himself away, never trusting himself to her completely and without reservation? What woman would want a man who was afraid of _himself_? Merlin, Frank knew that if the tables were turned and Alice were pretending to be someone she wasn't for nothing more than trying to get him to like her, he'd lose a lot of his respect for her.

James had told him to be strong to get the witch of his dreams, but he was wrong, at least in the way he had meant it.

It would take a special kind of strength to tell Alice that the confident, charming Frank Longbottom with whom she had gotten along with so well was nothing more than an act. He was the quiet steady boy she knew from all her years in Hogwarts, not this imposter. He didn't want to continue this charade any longer, and beyond that, he knew Alice wouldn't want a man who hid his true self. He certainly wouldn't. And he also knew that he wouldn't want any woman who encouraged her boyfriend to put on a mask and become someone else.

That night, as he fell asleep, he swore to himself that he'd speak to Alice tomorrow, and that he would stop hiding from her.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The next morning, Frank came down to breakfast as usual. However, before he took his new seat, which was with Alice and her friends, he took a deep breath. This wasn't going to be easy. Tapping Alice's shoulder, he gave her a nervous smile before saying, "Alice, could I have a private word with you?"

Her friends laughed and urged her to join him amid many a thinly veiled suggestion as to just exactly what Frank Longbottom wanted with her, yet Alice only shrugged them off. "Sure," she said, getting to her feet with the faintest of blushes. Frank offered her his arm, which she took. Together, the two of them walked out to the lake, where Frank cast a Drying Charm on the grass and gestured for her to take a seat at the base of the tree before sitting down beside her.

"Alice," he said, glancing down at his hands, "I've made a mistake. James told me to. So I did. But it is still my mistake, and it's my duty to apologize to you." He looked up, and although it was hard to look her in the eyes, he did.

"I really like you," he said. "I like you, and I like spending time with you." He took a deep breath. "But you see, I've— I've changed myself to get your attention, and that's not right, no matter what James says. This past week, I've been hiding who I really am and pretending to be someone else, to make you like me." She seemed to be thinking about his words, and at the thought, Frank was struck by a sudden flash of fear. Merlin, she could be thinking about anything — how much she liked him, how much she hated him — he certainly felt like a fool, baring his heart to her like this. What if she thought he was weak?

But that was why he was here. That was why he was doing this. She would either have all of him or none of him. Steeling himself, he said quickly, "Alice, look, I just— I've been pretending to be someone I'm not, and I just want to be frank with you. I just want to be _Frank_ with you."

Alice's grin was blinding. "I want you to be Frank as well," she said, taking his hand and squeezing his hand hard. "You don't have to change yourself for me. I like you, Frank. I like you just the way you are."


	61. A Very Riddle Reunion

**House:** Slytherin

 **Position:** Year 4

 **Category:** Standard

 **Prompt:** [First Line] It all started with a simple "Good morning", and went downhill from there.

 **Word Count:** 1093

oO0Oo

It all started with a simple "Good morning", and went downhill from there. Or, rather, any sane observer would have thought so; instead, the turn of events pleased Tom. Finding his family had proven quite a bore: researching archaic genealogies had never interested him, but, now that he was here and standing before a dilapidated shack, he allowed a feral grin to cross his face. Oh, he would enjoy this.

He strode to the door, which was a plank of wood with a rotting snakeskin nailed to it, and knocked twice. "Good morning?" he said. "Is anyone home?"

No one answered, but Tom was not deterred; he took out his wand and unlocked the door. His hand was on the handle and he was on the verge of pushing the door when he heard a voice croak, "Who are you."

"Your nephew," Tom answered smoothly, opening the door and allowing the light of the setting sun enter the household. In its orange glow, he saw a grime-coated, dusty, and cluttered room; then, in the shadows, something stirred.

It was man. In the shadows there stood a scarecrow of a man whose eyes bulged and stared in opposite directions. His hair hung lank and long, framing a sunken face. He squinted at Tom, seemingly blinded even by the faint, dying light. "Who are you?" he said, brandishing a knife in his hands. "How did you get in?"

Tom took an involuntary step back. That knife seemed ordinary, but something about it made the back of his neck prickle with unease. It felt… hungry. "I told you, I am your nephew."

His uncle's eyes darted from side to side, looking from Tom to the pitiful excuse of a door. "I don't have a nephew."

Ah, time to break the news. Tom strode into the room, purposefully avoiding the little bones strewn across the floor. "I am Tom Marvolo Riddle, and I am assuredly your nephew."

He didn't know what he had been expecting; however, his uncle's reaction took him by surprise. Instead of welcoming him, or even looking shocked, Morfin spat contemptuously on the floor. "She named you after that filth."

Tom's eyes narrowed. "I believe Marvolo is my grandfather's name," he said coldly.

Morfin snorted. "Maybe, but you'll never live up to it. What foul muggle tricks did you use to get in here, boy?"

"I unlocked the door," Tom said, his eyes flashing. " _Alohomora_ is a basic spell, but apparently your wards are too pathetic to stop even that."

Morfin stilled, both of his eyes coming to focus on Tom. "What did you say?" he said softly.

"I used _Alohomora._ It was not difficult to enter your 'home'."

His uncle staggered backwards. "How?" he snarled, one of his hands scrabbling across the table behind him, knocking over papers and inkwells, while the other brandished the knife at Tom. "You aren't— you can't—"

"I can't what?" Tom said, his voice dangerously soft as he palmed his wand into his hand. He wasn't certain if _Protego_ would stop Morfin's knife, but an offense would serve just as well; a few choice spells came to mind, none of them entirely legal.

"You can't have magic!" Morfin shouted, his hand coming to close around his own wand. "Crucio!"

Yet the beam of silvery light flew wide. Tom didn't even have to dodge. With a wordless _Expelliarmus_ , he had Morfin's wand securely in his grip; then, he stalked forward. "What a way to greet a long-lost nephew," he drawled, his voice silky soft, only the faintest undercurrent of menace hinting just how dangerous he truly was. "One would think you didn't want to see me… luckily, I was prepared for that." Tom smiled, allowing the blood-red gleam to enter his eyes.

At the sight, Morfin swallowed hard. "You— you can't be— Merope was a Squib!"

"Ah, but it seems generations of relentless inbreeding have corrupted our family tree." Tom smirked. "I have power you can only _dream_ of running through my veins," Tom drawled, slowly twirling Morfin's wand with the ease of much practice. "I promise you, uncle, I am no squib."

"We'll see about that." Morfin kept the cursed knife between him and Tom as he slowly backed away, his eyes flickering towards the snakeskin nailed to the door as he hissed, _Speak, you filth_.

 _Do not refer to me as filth_ , Tom hissed in reply. _I am no muggle_.

Morfin began cackling. "Are you sure?" he wheezed, the knife trembling in his grasp. "You certainly look like a muggle. You look like that muggle your blood-traitor mother was enamoured with."

Tom's eyes narrowed. "What muggle?"

Morfin leered at Tom. "Why, the muggle who lives in town. Stupid little Merope bewitched him— her, a descendant of Salazar Slytherin, running off with a muggle."

"Merope?" The name tasted strange on his tongue.

"Merope," his uncle said with a scowl. "Your whore mother. Stole the locket and married a muggle. But now— now she's dead." He grinned with wicked glee. "And boy, you look just like that muggle did…"

"I would tread carefully," Tom said, his voice low.

"Don't threaten me." Morfin bared his teeth in a rictus of a grin. "You're born of a squib and a muggle. You look just like him."

Tom gritted his teeth. "And pray, tell, what would this muggle's name be?"

Morfin grinned, his eyes bright with malice. "Tom," he said. "Tom Riddle."

Tom blinked. Then he drew his wand and with cool deliberation cast _Stupefy_ on his uncle. Once Morfin had crumpled to the ground, Tom stooped over his uncle's body and took the cursed knife. The artefact could prove useful later… and while he was 'liberating' heirlooms, he may as well take the ring adorning his uncle's middle finger. It exuded a strange aura, and he thought he recognized the Gaunt family crest upon it.

Then, with the ring and the dagger safely in his pocket and Morfin's wand securely in his grasp, Tom strode out of the shack. His insane uncle wouldn't wake up for at least another hour, and that left plenty of time for Tom to pay a visit to another branch of his family.

Tom Riddle. A disgustingly common name borne by a disgustingly common muggle; yet, this promised be quite enjoyable. Tom smirked. It was time to assume the alias Lord Voldemort, although he would certainly use Morfin's wand.

After all, a family reunion wasn't fun unless said family ended up dead or in Azkaban.

And it had all started with such a simple "Good morning".


	62. The Fog

**House:** Slytherin

 **Position:** Year 4

 **Prompt:** [Weather] Fog

 **Category:** Short

 **Word Count:** 1819

oO0Oo

The fog clung to the hilltop, casting everything in a surreal glow. It was a beautiful morning for a walk, and an even more beautiful morning for a run.

Hermione puffed along, trying her hardest just to keep jogging. Her feet throbbed, her thighs burned, and she was sure she had a stitch in her side, because what else could be causing such sharp pains with each breath she took — however, she kept running. If she was to be hunting horcruxes and fleeing Death Eaters in the coming year, she _had_ to be in better shape than she currently was.

Panting, she started sprinting up the hill. The top was so close, and if she reached it without collapsing, she promised herself that she'd take a minute or two to catch her breath and take a sip of water from the water bottle she had put into her backpack.

Muscles screaming, Hermione finally crested the hill. Below her, laid out like a map, was her tiny portion of Birmingham. If she squinted, she could even spot the familiar black shingles of her own home. In its tiny yard, there was a small, hunched over older woman in a pink flowered bathrobe puttering about. Her mother was likely getting an early start on her daily gardening and tending to the peonies.

Hermione began to smile at the sight; however, as she remembered the why exactly she was running out and about in the early morning fog and not sleeping in her comfortable bed, the smile faded. The Wizarding War was looming, and she didn't have long before she helped Harry defeat Voldemort. Her role was crucial: she had to ensure that Harry survived long enough to face Voldemort. She'd known that since fourth year, when Voldemort had returned. It was an important duty, and the Death Eaters would do anything to stop her, including break her.

If that meant killing innocents, she doubted that would even give them a pause. Lucius Malfoy had slipped Ginny the horcrux diary when the girl was only a first year, not knowing what it would do, but knowing that it had been enchanted by his Lord and so was likely filled to the brim with dark and dangerous magic. So long as they were her parents, they were in danger that they could never defend against. It didn't matter how many wards she cast or how many protective charms she placed around them; the simple fact remained that they were muggles, and so any determined wizard would find it very easy to torture them, kill them, or kidnap them. Even guns would not be able to protect them — Hermione could easily imagine a discreet Imperius being placed on her mother as she went shopping, or a stunner while her father was driving to work. Even the Order couldn't keep them safe, not against everything, and that was assuming the Order had enough people to keep a 24/7 guard around her parents.

Her parents were in danger as long as they were her parents.

But she wouldn't let them die. Not if she could help it.

Hermione swallowed hard. She knew what she had to do. Steeling her resolve, she began to run back down the hill. With each step, with each pounding of her heart, the inevitability seemed to grow. She had a duty to her parents, to ensure that they were protected. She had a duty to Harry, to help him save the Wizarding World. She would die for both, and she would kill for both.

But of the two, her duty to Harry and the Wizarding World trumped that to her parents. She hated to put it in such cold, cruel logic, but the lives of thousands easily outweighed those of her parents, even if they _were_ her parents. If the Order couldn't help her keep her parents safe, she would have to do that herself.

Her parents were in danger as long as they were her parents.

As she neared her house, she slipped her wand out from her backpack. "Mum?" she called. When the figure clad in the pink bathrobe turned, Hermione gave her a strained smile. "Is Dad up yet?"

Her mother squinted at the sun, then replied, "I think so, though he's probably in the shower right now. Goodness, Hermione. You should have told me you were going running this morning! I'd have made you breakfast, too."

"Don't worry about it. I can make my own breakfasts." Hermione glanced around, then lowered her voice. "Mum, could we go in? I've got something important to tell you and Dad, something about my boarding school."

"Could it wait a few minutes? I'm almost done tending to my peonies."

Against her will, Hermione smiled fondly at her mother's devotion to her flowers. "It really can't, mum. This is really important, and I want to talk to you and Dad as soon as possible."

"I guess then, dear." Her mother hummed under her breath as she put away the watering can, then the shears, then turned to Hermione. "While we're waiting for you father to get out of the shower, how about I put on a pot of tea? You look parched from running."

"Sure, mum," Hermione said, feeling her throat beginning to constrict at the thought that this might be the last cup of tea her mother ever made her. "That'd be nice."

"Then let's go in. Water doesn't boil itself, you know!" With a cheery wave, her mum entered the house, and after taking a deep breath, Hermione followed her in. "Now, go wash up, Hermione, and I'll have your breakfast ready by then."

Hermione snorted softly but did as her mother bid. When she exited the bathroom, she found a heaping plate of eggs before her. "Mum, I told you I wasn't hungry!" she protested as she entered the kitchen. "And those were dad's eggs!"

"Ah, don't worry about it," her mum said fondly. "Dig in, and I'll have another batch ready for him when he comes out. He never has to know."

"He never has to know what?" Her father's familiar voice filled the room, and Hermione turned to find him standing in the doorway in full business attire.

"Oh, just that Hermione gets your eggs this morning," her mother cheekily answered. "Have a seat, love, and I'll whip you up some more."

"No, don't worry about it," Hermione said, pushing the plate of eggs back in front of her father's seat, where it belonged. "I'm not that hungry right now, anyways." And she wasn't. In her stomach twisted knots of fear, worry, and apprehension; she didn't think she'd be able to eat anything right now. She took a deep breath. "I'm glad you're here, dad, because I have something I want to say."

"What is it, honey?" he asked.

"Mum, could you join us at the table? This- well, this is important." Hermione waited until her mum had taken off her apron and sat down before speaking again. "You know about the prejudice in the Wizarding World. You know that I'm a muggleborn. Things aren't great for me, but they're about to get a lot worse.

A dark wizard intent on enforcing blood purity is beginning to terrorize the Wizarding World. There's this prophecy that Harry has to defeat him, and I mean to help Harry succeed." Her father began to speak, but Hermione cut him off with a sharp glance. "I _have_ to be there, dad. If I'm not, he might not survive until he has to face You-Know-Who, and then I'll be hunted down anyways, because I'm a muggleborn." She dragged her chair in. "But it's dangerous. This wizard has followers, and those followers are ruthless and will do anything to succeed. They'll try to hurt me, and, well, if they can't find me… it'll be easy for them to find you."

She gave them a sad smile. "I want to keep you safe, mum and dad. But as long as I'm your daughter and you're my parents, you're not safe."

To her surprise, it was her father who seemed gobsmacked, while her mother simply nodded. "We'll hide, then," her mother said. "We'll change our names, dye our hair, and disappear."

"But what if they track you down?" Hermione countered. "What if they put a Taboo on my name, so they know whenever someone says it, and one day you just let it slip? You'd be defenseless against them. The Order doesn't have enough people to protect you, and I will _not_ let you die."

"Then what would you have us do?"

Hermione bit her lip. "I'd- I'd wipe your memories and give you new ones send you to the United States, where you'd be safe. You could have entirely new lives. You wouldn't remember me. You'd be safe."

"But Hermione, what if we don't want to forget you?" Her mother smoothed down one of Hermione's flyaway curls. "You're our little girl, and even if this war will be as dangerous as you say, I don't want to forget you. Nothing is more important than that."

"This is safe and reversible," Hermione lied. "Once the war's over, I would either lift the Memory Charm or send someone else to do it. It would only be temporary."

"That's my girl." Her father laid a hand on her shoulder. "So strong, so brave, so methodical. Harry's lucky to have you, Hermione."

She smiled at him, although tears were beginning to blur her vision. "So you'll do it, then?"

"If it'll help you, then I'll do it," her father said. "I love you, Hermione, don't forget that. That won't change no matter what memories you put in my head. Jean?"

"I guess," her mother said. "And I love you too, Hermione, no matter what happens."

Hermione pulled her parents into a bone-crushing hug, then pointed her wand at each of their foreheads in turn and began casting.

Hours later, she left her home. Only, it wasn't her home any longer. The eggs sat untouched on the table, but it was too late to go back and have her final glimpse of her parents or have one last bite of her mother's cooking. She'd clouded their minds with a thick and insidious fog, and they wouldn't recognize her until it lifted, if it ever did. In their current state, they'd most likely call the police on her if she walked into the house.

So Hermione clutched her beaded bag and walked away from her parents, already thinking about what she would tell the Order: she'd Obliviated her parents and sent them to Australia with fake identities, and they were Wendell and Monica Wilkins there. Any spies of Voldemort who heard _that_ rumor would have trouble finding her parents then.

As long as they were her parents, they were in danger. But it seemed they weren't her parents anymore.


	63. The Crystal Ball

**House:** Slytherin

 **Position:** Year 4

 **Category:** Additional

 **Prompt:** Seeing something in a crystal ball

 **Word Count:** 1127

 **Warning:** a little swearing

oO0Oo

Draco had known that when he'd turned seventeen, he would be taken to a Seer and have his future read. That was normal for men of his station. What he hadn't expected, however, was for that Seer to peer into a crystal ball and then proclaim in an oddly deep voice, with her eyes rolling to the back of her head, "You shall marry the daughter of the man of the castle on the hill, and to earn her hand, you must first set her free, because as the moon waxes and wanes in the sky, so must she be free to shine as she pleases. In her freedom, so shall you find yours."

When she finished speaking, she collapsed. Before he'd even fully gotten over his shock, Draco had snatched the crystal ball from the Seer's grasp and looked into it. Inside, he saw nothing but smoke, but later, when he told his father about the Seer's strange episode, his father had seemed pensive. "I have heard true prophecies were told in such a manner... " he had drawled. "You would do well to heed it, Draco."

Draco had nodded, still not entirely sure what the prophecy meant, but grateful his father had not asked him to divulge it. Traditionally, such things were private, but with the Dark Lord living in their manor, nothing was as it ought to be. There were often Death Eaters prowling the halls, and Draco felt as though his every move were watched, especially since he had failed to kill Dumbledore. He certainly felt trapped, and at times he wished to meet the girl in the prophecy, so that he could finally be free.

Yet it wasn't until Travers and Selwyn came back talking about Xenophilius Lovegood's bloody house which was shaped like a rook and carrying a thin slip of a girl — Luna Lovegood — that Draco began to consider the prophecy more seriously.

A rook was another term for a castle, and if he remembered correctly, Lovegood lived near the Weasleys, and that area was very hilly. And she was a prisoner in the Manor. If Luna Lovegood was to be his wife, he was the butt of a massive joke. Hopefully she wasn't… but there was only one way to find out.

One day, after gathering his courage, Draco stepped into the basement. It was dark down there, but after casting a quiet _lumos_ , he found Luna, Ollivander, Griphook, and Dean Thomas. All four of them were chained to a metal grate in the middle of the room, and all four of them seemed thin and wane.

"Luna?" Draco said softly, moving closer to the only figure with long, dirty blonde hair.

"Get away from her, you fucker!" Dean Thomas spat, struggling to his feet to glare at Draco. "Don't you put one finger on her, you bloody Death Eater!"

Draco glared back at him. "I'm not going to hurt her. I brought her food and blankets. I just have a question for her."

"Just a question," Dean scoffed. "She doesn't know where Potter is, so bloody well leave her alone, Malfoy."

Draco scowled. "I'm not asking about Potter." Using his wand, he directed the blanket to wrap itself around Luna's shoulders, then cast a Warming charm on it. She looked like she needed it.

"Thanks, Draco," she said, looking up at him.

"I have to ask you something, and it's going to sound weird, but would you please answer truthfully?" She nodded, and Draco took a deep breath before saying, "Did you live on a hill?"

Oddly enough, she paused before answering. "I did live on a hill," she murmured. "So it is you. I'd thought it'd be you."

Draco's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?" If she had known — but how could she have known? — what did that mean for him? And she was his wife — her name _meant_ moon, and women with their infernal mood swings certainly 'waxed and waned' — what was he to do now? And how could she set him free?

Luna interrupted his thoughts. "I can't tell you yet… but the truth will set you free."

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

As the weeks passed, he thought more and more upon what she had said. She had seemed far too certain in her speech to be descending into her inane mumblings as she sometimes did… so she had _known_ he would come? She had been _waiting_ for him? She could set him free, if he only gave her the chance… it sounded too similar to the prophecy for comfort, and so he tried his best to put the matter from his mind, and instead focus on finding Potter and dominating the school.

Yet, when he came back on those rare weekends that the Dark Lord allowed him to — Draco was sure it had something to do with reminding his parents just what they would lose if they disobeyed — he would remember Luna, and be plunged by guilt and grief and indecision once again.

Then, finally, after torturing a Slytherin first year for speaking out of turn (which Alecto had said was permissible because the boy was only a half-blood), Draco had snapped. That night, he had gathered his most important belongings and slunk through the halls, desperately hoping that no one would run into him. If someone did, he wasn't sure what he would do. His family was a disgrace, and it was definitely suspicious that he was slinking around at three in the morning. After all, nothing good ever happened after 2AM.

But maybe this time, something would.

Luckily, Draco made it to the basement without being spotted, and even luckier, when he got there, he saw Luna sitting on the floor, still chained to the grate, but waiting for him. Her hair was like a golden halo around her head, and without thinking, Draco knelt down and took her hand. "Luna," he said. "I can get you out of here."

"But why would you do that?"

He swallowed, hard. This was it. The renunciation of everything he had ever been: pureblood playboy Draco Malfoy wouldn't exist if he freed Luna and married her like Trelawney's prophecy had said he would. "Because I'm meant to free you, and then marry you." It felt like he was losing a part of himself, saying that, but at the same time, he felt… whole again, in a way he couldn't describe. "Luna Lovegood, daughter of Xenophilius and Pandora Lovegood, will you marry me?"

"I wouldn't mind," Luna answered, deftly unlocking her chains with a touch of wandless magic. She leaned her head on Draco's shoulder, and looked up at him with great grey luminous eyes. "After all, that's what the Mngva said would happen."


	64. Business Trip

**House:** Slytherin

 **Position:** Year 4

 **Category:** Additional

 **Prompt:** Returning home after a long trip

 **Word Count:** 1175

 **Warning:** Light swearing

oO0Oo

"Hello?" Draco pushed open the door to the Manor, and it opened on silent hinges. It had been a long, not entirely successful business trip, and he was eager to see his lovely wife again. "Astoria? Where are you, love?" Yet the inside of the house was dark and devoid of life. "Astoria?"

With a sudden crack, a House Elf appeared before Draco. "Master Draco has come back," it said, wringing its hands. "Quincy is a bad elf, Quincy should be punished, Quincy is a bad bad elf!" It charged forward, ramming its head into the wall.

"Quincy, just stop." Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. "Tell me where Astoria is."

Yet if anything, the elf's eyes only grew wider. "Mistress- Mistress Astoria be gone, Master Draco. She said she would not come back."

Draco froze. "She's… gone?" The word felt strange on his tongue.

"She go when you did go, Master Draco."

"That- that was weeks ago," Draco said, staggering to the nearest chair and collapsing into it. "What did she take with her? Actually, never mind, just bring me a bottle of Ogden's finest. And get Blaise."

"Quincy will be doing that, Quincy will be owling Mister Blaise right away." The elf bowed low, then scurried off.

Before the elf had even disappeared from sight, Draco was already turning around and trudging to his bedroom. Yet when he entered, he found it bare, for Astoria had stripped it of almost everything of value.

He couldn't deal with that at the moment. It was just too much. With a sigh, Draco turned around and began to make his way back to the front door. He'd spend the night at Theo's house, and maybe also get roaring drunk, and then he'd deal with this problem in the morning… but just as he was pulling on his boots, Blaise appeared outside the gates with a loud _crack_.

"Oh no," Blaise said, grabbing Draco's arm and dragging him away from the apparition point. "I know that look in your eye, mate, and it never leads to anything good. What happened?"

Draco snorted. "What _didn't_ happen? Astoria's left me, Blaise, I don't even know why, but she's _gone_."

For a long second, Blaise simply looked at him; then, he nodded. "You really did love her," his friend said.

"The woman I loved wouldn't have left me," Draco spat, twisting out of Blaise's grip. "Now let go of me. I'm going to Theo's to get smashed and I'll deal with this tomorrow." He pushed past his friend.

But Blaise only grabbed Draco's robes and yanked him back. "I don't know why I bother, but I'm not going to let you bloody destroy yourself. Not over Astoria." His friend's expression softened. "C'mon, Draco. Let's go back to my house. I've got some alcohol there, and hey, you're welcome to stay as long as you need."

"But- but what about your wife? Your children?"

Blaise laughed. "My wife and I are having a romantic evening together; the brats are at Theo's, playing with his own kids. Come on, Draco." He tugged his friend with him to the apparition point. "I'll Side-Along you, because in the state you're in, you're liable to splinch yourself."

 _Crack_.

Thus, Draco was standing before Blaise's home before he could form a protest. However, as his friend tried to lead him indoors, he said, "But Blaise- I don't want to ruin your evening with Lovegood."

"She's a Zabini now, you ignorant asshole, get that right," Blaise quipped. "Now come on in. I know she won't mind. She was friendly with you wife, too, so maybe she knows why Astoria left."

"Maybe," Draco said. "But thinking about Astoria _hurts_."

Blaise grinned. "Luna's wonderful at making your forget your pain, Draco. I don't know how the woman does it, but she's a fucking marvel."

Draco grimaced. "I don't want to know the kinky things you two do in the bedroom."

"No, not that," Blaise said with a soft snort. "Although that's always nice. No, what I mean is that there's something in the way that she listens to you talk and gives her quiet acceptance that's soothing. You remember how fucked up I was because of all the stepfathers I had, most of whom treated me like shite?"

Draco nodded. It would have been _very_ hard to forget that.

"Well, when I started dating her and we started talking about our respective pasts and I finally opened up and told her about all the fuckery my mom put me through with all those husbands, it just felt like a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders." He clapped Draco on the arm. "And now, we use my wife's magical powers of perception to help you. So come on." Blaise threw open the door. "Luna? Where are you?"

"In the kitchen," came the musical reply. "But I'll meet you in the dining room."

In the dining room, on the polished mahogany table, sat three bottles: one of Ogden's finest, one of chardonnay, and one of milk.

"What a peculiar selection of drinks," Draco said as he sat down.

Blaise laughed. "This one's for you, mate," he said, passing the milk to Draco.

Luna entered the room. "No, it's not," she chided her husband, plucking the bottle from Blaise's grasp and placing it before the only open seat that remained. "It's mine, because drinking milk is good for an expectant mother."

Blaise froze. "Wait- wait- you're pregnant again?"

"I think so," Luna replied. "The flibberworts are gathering again, and they only gather in areas of extreme fertility."

"Oh." Blaise grabbed the bottle of Ogden's finest and took a deep swig. "Thanks, Draco. This one was supposed to be yours, but I needed it."

Draco rolled his eyes. "I'm glad to be of service." He took the chardonnay and poured himself a bit. "This vintage, though, is decidedly subpar."

"Oi," Blaise said. "I didn't bring you here to critique my wine selection. I brought you here to talk to my wife, because she has these magical powers of making you feel better."

After taking a sip of the chardonnay and wrinkling his nose at its flavor, Draco nodded. "Yes, let's each stick to our own. I'll pick fine wines, you and Luna help me get over Astoria."

Luna spoke. "It's not 'getting over' her," she said, then took a small sip of milk. "It's accepting that she doesn't want to live with you anymore, and that somewhere, the two of you stumbled."

"Acceptance? What will acceptance do me?"

"A lot," Luna said seriously. "It's only then that you can start to heal."

Oddly enough, Draco already felt better, just from hearing her say that. Perhaps with Luna's help, he would be able to accept that Astoria had left him, and then move on with his life. "I never said this," he said, "but thanks for doing this, Blaise. And thank you, Luna."

"Of course," she replied. "Now, put yourself in Astoria's shoes. If you were her, why would you leave?"


	65. Blaise Zabini

**House:** Slytherin

 **Year:** 4th

 **Category:** Drabble

 **Requirement:** family

 **Prompt:** [Speech] "Why do you never believe me? Is it because I always lie?"

 **Word Count:** 616

oO0Oo

When Blaise slouched into his mother's current husband's Italian villa, he was immediately hit with the stench of unwashed bodies, spoiled food, and spilled wine. "Mum," he said flatly, letting his luggage fall to the floor with a dull _thud_. "I'm here."

"Mmm, it's good to see you, Blaise." His mother walked out of the kitchen with only a towel on, her hair tousled and her skin flushed, and Blaise hastily averted his eyes. "Make yourself at home."

Blaise crossed his arms. "Really, mum?" he said, gesturing at the chaotic surroundings. "Why'd you bed this one?"

In a flash, his mother silenced him. He hadn't even seen her pull her wand, although he supposed she was capable of wandless, non-verbal wandless magic when the situation required it. He certainly hadn't gotten his intelligence from his father.

"We talk about this later," his mother hissed. "Tonight on the beach, where there aren't prying eyes or ears."

Scowling, Blaise nodded.

"Good." Giving him a pleased smile, she lifted the Silencing charm and gave him a hug. "It's good to see you again, Blaise. Why don't you get settled in your rooms? I'm sure it will take a while - I'll have the House Elves bring you dinner. Lorenzo… he will certainly want to dine privately with me." She smirked.

"Great mum, try not to scar me too much, okay?" Blaise said with a roll of his eyes. "I'll see you later."

"Later." With a salacious wink, his mother swept off to the kitchen, likely to see the 'Lorenzo' she had mentioned.

Meanwhile, Blaise charmed his bags to float up to his room; however, he didn't bother to unpack. The light in his mother's eyes was a familiar one; she was beginning to tire of her latest toy, and Blaise knew it wouldn't be long now. Thus, he passed the hours reading and casting random spells, until the sun had finally set. Then, he crept out of the house.

Out on the beach, he met his mother. She had a dark robe pulled around her, and she was illuminated only by the light of the moon.

Strangely, she had not cast a _lumos_ , so Blaise did. Then, he spoke. "What excuses do you have for me this time?" he drawled.

"They're not excuses," his mother snapped. "Lorenzo is a good man, a rich man, and he will treat us well."

Blaise snorted. "I've heard that so many times, but in the end, it never matters. You're like a spider trapping fat flies in her web. Tell me another one, mum."

His mother seemed to slump. "Why do you never believe me?" she said with a sigh. "Is it because I always lie?" Not waiting for Blaise to answer, she continued, "Because I don't. I _don't_. Not to you, Blaise. You're my son, and I refuse to lie to you. Family is worth more than that."

"'Family' won't save Lorenzo. It didn't save _my_ father."

His mum swallowed. "I've made mistakes, Blaise. I'm no saint. We both know that. But I would never lie to you. Family is something sacred, and right now, you're the only family I have. You know that, Blaise. You're my son, my only child."

"I'm your only child because I was the only time you forgot the contraceptive charm."

"Maybe that was true once," his mother said, "but you're still my son, and I do love you. Just give Lorenzo a chance, Blaise. I know I go through husbands quickly, but I only have one son. There's no replacing you. I don't ask for your acceptance, just your understanding."

Blaise sighed. "Fine. I'll be back at Hogwarts soon enough, anyways. Night, mum."

And he walked back to the villa alone.


	66. The Morning Mist

**House:** Slytherin

 **Year:** 4th

 **Category:** Standard

 **Requirement:** Love conquers all

 **Prompt:** [Weather] Misty

 **Word Count:** 970

oO0Oo

Hermione pulled her duffel bag off the baggage claim and began walking towards the cabs. As she did, she kept constant watch over her surroundings. The war was finally over, but the Battle of Hogwarts was still seared into her brain, and the months spent on the run had taken their toll. She didn't know if she'd ever be the same, but she hoped so. As time passed, she was beginning to relax a little more. Things were slowly returning to normal.

Searching for the neatly lettered sign that would say "Granger", she felt the tears bubbling within her almost rise to the surface again. There was one thing she wasn't sure would ever return to normal, but she had to try, no matter how much it hurt, because she owed them as much. She stopped before her cab.

"Are you Miss Granger?" her driver said in a heavy Australian accent.

"I am she," Hermione said, letting him take her duffel bag from her and toss it into the trunk. "Would it be possible to drop me off at a relative's house instead of my hotel? My mother's dying, and she wants to see me as quickly as possible."

"I don't see why not," he said, holding open the door for her to enter the car. "Just as long as it's not too far." As the taxi pulled out into the early morning fog, he asked, "What's the address?"

Hermione pulled a well-worn paper from her pocket. "638 Magnolia Lane."

"That won't be any problem."

As he drove, Hermione tried to ignore her growing apprehension. It had been nearly a year since she had last seen her parents. They wouldn't recognize her, of course, but she hoped she would still be able to recognize them. Surely they couldn't have changed too drastically in one year…

Although the drive was supposed to only take 20 minutes, the thick fog covering the city meant that Hermione didn't exit the taxi until nearly 8 AM. Nevertheless, she paid the driver with a smile, and when he wished her luck with her mother's recovery, that smile only faded a bit. If only the memory charm were reversible - she had been nothing if not thorough last year, and all accounts said the effects were permanent. Yet she thanked him for his kind words, then set off in the early morning mist.

The fog clung to her and made it hard to tell which way she was going - inside it, Hermione felt lost. It made her think of her parents, lost and wandering in a similar fog which she herselves had placed in their minds. It was as though their entire lives had been enveloped by mist. One which (hopefully) they would find a way out of.

Finally, Hermione found their door. As the fog swirled around her, she knocked.

When her father opened the door, Hermione almost began to cry. It was as though a stranger wore her father's face, for there was no warm glow of recognition in those familiar eyes. "What do you want?" he said brusquely. "If you're trying to sell something, we're not interested."

Hermione swallowed. "No, it's not that," she said, her voice breaking. "There's something important I have to tell you…"

"Wendell?" Her mother's voice floated to Hermione. "Who's at the door? They sound familiar."

"It's some young woman, dear," her father called back. "She says she has something important to tell us."

"Oh?" Hermione's mother approached, busily stirring her coffee. Then she looked up and saw Hermione.

Both women froze. In her mother's eyes, Hermione saw something - the barest flash of recognition - and then the mug of coffee slipped from her mother's hands and shattered, sending scalding coffee everywhere.

After casting a surreptitious glance around her, Hermione siphoned the coffee out of the carpet and cast a quick _Reparo_. As the mug knit itself back together, she asked, "Are you okay?"

"I- I'm fine," her mother replied. "You look very familiar, Hermione."

Hermione's lips quicked into a grin. "You know my name?"

"Somehow," her mother replied, pressing a hand to her forehead. "But I must be going crazy, because it would be impossible for a mug to repair itself."

Now her father was looking at her, his eyes wide. "I think," he said slowly, "I think I knew a Hermione. Once. A lifetime ago. She was a witch. She mended mugs like you did."

Hermione blinked back her tears, focusing on her parent's faces. Around her, the mist seemed to be thinning. "What did this Hermione look like?" she asked.

"She was brave," her mother said immediately. "So, so brave. She was a lion. And very smart. We were always impressed by how quickly she learned. Even magic."

Her father nodded. "She was strong, too. When her friends got in trouble, she would help them, and when she was bullied for her blood status, she kept her chin up." He sighed. "I wish I'd had more time with Hermione."

"Me too," her mother said.

Hermione swallowed hard. "You can still have time with her," she said softly. "Do you remember what this Hermione looked like?"

Her father frowned. "No, oddly, I can't."

But then her mother started. "You, you have Edward's nose! And my eyes! And the Granger hair!" She paused. "Who _are_ you?"

Now it was her father's turn to start. He stared at her again, harder this time, then enveloped her in a hug. "She's Hermione," he said as he squeezed her so hard Hermione thought her ribs might break. "She's our _daughter_."

And around them, the fog lifted. The sun smiled down at the happy family, warming them with its bright, clear glow. Just as her parent's eyes and minds were clear now, too. The mist was gone; it was time to embrace the light.


	67. Azkaban

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Drabble

 **Year:** Head Girl

 **Prompt:** [Setting] Azkaban Cell

 **Word Count:** 306

oO0Oo

For once, it was quiet.

The silence was peaceful, stretching calm and unbroken across the desolate island. It was also unnerving. For as long as she could remember, the screams, moans, and whimpers of the inmates had been in her ears.

Something was happening.

From within her cell, Bellatrix Black pulled herself to her feet. A small smile tugged at her lips, but she wasn't happy - she didn't know if she would ever be truly happy again - and so the smile faded and was replaced by something which wasn't quite a grimace. Stumbling across her cell, Bellatrix pressed herself against the cold iron door. She could fit almost the entire top half of bony frame through the bars, but even that did not allow her to see further than down the hallway, which ended in a nondescript grey wall.

She'd seen that wall too many times. If the Dark Lord was coming for her, then he would come for her, whether or not she was sitting in her cell of reaching out through the bars. Something like hope flickered in her chest, and Bellatrix basked in its feeble warmth. It had been so long since she'd felt anything beyond crushing despair.

Her patience was soon rewarded. Some time later, the door to her cell crumpled, and Bellatrix forced herself to her feet. With an unsteady gait, she stepped out of her cell and breathed her first breath of air in decades.

Then she smiled. The masked Death Eater who had freed her had also brought her her wand. Turning back to the tiny, cramped cell where she had spent fifteen years of her life, she cast Fiendfyre.

As the flames devoured her cell, she began to laugh, and then she was cackling uncontrollably.

Free.

She was finally free.

When she stopped laughing, the silence was beautiful.


	68. After the War

**House:** Slytherin

 **Position:** Head Girl

 **Category:** Standard

 **Word Count:** 862

 **Prompt:** [Last Line] Next time she/he would listen to _.

 **Additional Requirement:** Draco, Pansy, Narcissa.

o0O0o

"Dear, are you alright?" His mother laid a hand on his shoulder, and for a moment, Draco almost allowed himself to think everything was going to be okay. Above him towered the remnants of Hogwarts castle, and around him stood the hundreds of wizards grieving for their dead, but his family was together again, and the Dark Lord was gone. Perhaps they would finally have their happily ever after.

But that wasn't true, and it never would be. Not when he bore the skull and snake. Draco almost began to cry, but then he took a deep breath and said with a small smile, "I'm fine, mother."

"You're lying." Pansy appeared beside him, and she spoke with utter conviction. She seemed haunted, which was no surprise; she had nothing left to lose. She was the woman who had spoken in the silence and offered Potter to the Dark Lord.

He couldn't be seen associating with her. Not now, not if he wanted to rebuild his family name after the war. Fear made him caustic. "How would you know?" he retorted with a particularly malicious sneer.

She paused, then she lifted her chin and tossed her hair over her shoulder."I love you, Draco. I always have." She reached out toward him, looking so broken it made something deep inside him break a little, as well. "Please, Draco," she whispered.

She needed him, she had always needed him, but it seemed when she needed him the most - he couldn't be there for her.

"Get away from me!" he snapped, batting her hands away. "I can't- we can't- just _leave_ , Pansy. We can't do this, not now."

She flinched, lowering her eyes to the ground. Then she took a deep breath, as if steeling herself. When she looked up again, Draco could see the anger in her eyes. "Just who do you think you are?" she snarled. "Because I know who you are - the entire world knows who you are! You're Draco Malfoy, a scared little boy with a Dark Mark tattooed on your arm." She began to laugh. "You think you're any better than me? We'll see about that - I'm not the one who antagonized Potter in school, or had the Dark Lord's mark engraved into my very _being_!" She grabbed his wrist, twisted it upwards, and pulled back his sleeve, exposing the blackened flesh for the world to see.

"Get the fuck away from me!" Draco shouted, ripping his arm out of her grasp and savagely backhanding her with his other hand. "You're dirt beneath my feet, Parkinson, and I won't dirty myself with the likes of you."

From the ground, she gave a gasping laugh. "I'm dirt now, aren't I? That's funny, very funny, Malfoy. From pureblood to mudblood in a day - but I think you'll find that most of society finds former Death Eaters _far_ worse than even mudbloods. Especially now with Granger. But you can still save yourself! We can still be something, Draco. We can still have our happily ever after. I can help you redeem your family name!"

"You're insane." Draco turned away from her, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut. Pansy was probably right - who would trust a reformed Death Eater? - but he wouldn't think of that now. Today was a day to be grateful to be alive.

But behind him stood his mother, who had been watching the exchange with narrowed eyes. Draco had forgotten she was there.

"Can we go?" he said, taking her arm.

She pursed her lips. "We may, although you botched your handling of Miss Parkinson. You may need her, Draco, and it is _never_ acceptable to hit a lady. However, we shall talk of this some other day."

Draco nodded, and together, the two of them began to make their way off the battlefield, and to where the dead and grieving were gathered.

. . . . . . . . . . .

From the ground, Pansy watched them go. Draco walked with a sharp, stuttering step, with his hand always hovering over his wand, as though he expected to be attacked at any moment. Meanwhile, his mother walked with calm, unhurried grace. However, that wasn't particularly surprising; Pansy would expect nothing less from a woman who had lied to the Dark Lord's face to save her son. The Malfoys didn't have much, but Lucius was bound to realize he'd botched the last thirty years and stained the Malfoy name almost beyond repair. With luck, he would give Narcissa command of the rebuilding their reputation, and the woman was a force to the reckoned with.

The Malfoys had fallen, but they were bound to rise again. Potter believed in forgiveness and second chances, after all. The Malfoys still had their monstrous vaults, but more importantly, they had Narcissa. Pansy's own family was ill-suited to such political maneuvering, and she knew she herself was not as adept as Narcissa. However, if she could tie herself to the Malfoys, she would be saved.

And if there was anything her parents had taught her, it was that the wife always had the last say. She would marry Draco, no matter what it took.

Next time he would listen to her.


	69. The Life of Tom Riddle

**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Drabble

 **Prompt:** [First Line] I didn't have the full story when I made this choice

 **Year:** Head Girl

 **Word Count:** 378

 **A/N:** This is an experiment with a different mode of writing - I wanted to play around with the 'history book' feel, so please don't judge too quickly :)

I didn't have the full story when I made this choice. I suppose there's a lesson to be learned here, but if there is one, I'm not sure what it is. All I've learned from my past eleven years spent as a disembodied spirit is that possessing any animal, even snakes, is a terrible idea. Thinking of vultures still reminds me of that one decomposing deer carcass I once scarfed down before I realized that it wasn't my hunger, but the animal's, and I've been trying to forget that memory. It's scary to learn you don't have as much control over yourself as you thought you did.

Anyway, I haven't explained _why_ I was a disembodied spirit for eleven years. Regardless of what you might think, that is not something that typically happens in the Wizarding World. (And if you do think that happens a lot, go walk in the way of a Death Eater, you ignorant muggle). One can do a lot of things with magic, but generally, most sane wizard and witches tend to avoid being more pathetic than even the weakest ghost. So you see, my predicament was completely unintentional. Like I said, I didn't have the entire story - all I knew was that I didn't want to die, I had found a page in the Restricted Section which dealt with the theory and implementation of horcrux creation (and not the effects), and there were some people in the world who I wouldn't mind killing.

Looking back, I really ought to have gotten the full story before going out and making my horcruxes. I was an enthusiastic young man, but really, that's no excuse. Only an insane man would continue making horcruxes, especially when on is all you really need to achieve immortality… but I think because I didn't know the full story, I ended up playing Exploding Snap without a full deck. I could have been so much more, but I ended up only a pale, distorted shadow of myself.

I really ought to have gotten the full story before choosing to make my horcruxes.

\- An excerpt of _The Life of Tom Riddle_ , as remembered by Abraxas Malfoy, in one of the rare moments when the Dark Lord wished to speak of his past.


	70. Professor Snake

**House:** Slytherin

 **Year:** Head Girl

 **Prompt:** [Object] Cracked cauldron

 **Category:** Standard

 **Word count:** 823

* * *

Severus remembers when he first met Nicholas Dodda. Even though he swept into the classroom with an intimidating scowl and a flare of his robes designed to cow the impressionable first-years, Nicholas only sat up a little straighter in his chair and flashed a gap-toothed smile. "Hi, Professor Snake!" he called out.

The other Hufflepuffs tittered, although a few managed to keep a straight face: either out of fear or out of loyalty to their Housemate. Severus didn't particularly care to find out; either way, the answer was bound to reflect badly on the students. House loyalty was all well and good, but there was a difference between blind loyalty because it was expected and loyalty to one who _earned_ it.

Severus looked down his nose at the boy. "Mister… Dodda," he said in a slow drawl he knew made students - even the fourth years, who would never admit it - quake in their trainers.

"Yes?" Big eyes looked up at him.

"Yes, sir," Severus snapped. "Five points from Hufflepuff. If your behaviour continues, detention."

The boy _smiled_. "Okay, Professor Snake!"

Behind him, the Hufflepuffs seemed torn between bursting into laughter or looking properly horrified. Snape decided it was time to enforce the rule of law, or else he'd be "Professor Snake" for the remainder of the term.

"Detention," he said crisply, looking down his nose at the idiotic boy before striding to the front of the classroom. "Speak with me after class, Mister Dodda. Now, everyone, turn to page 241 of your book."

Class passed uneventfully, save for some bumbling Hufflepuff almost ruining her cauldron. When class ended, Nicholas did hang back, and Snape looked up from the row of vials before him to say, "Please come to the front, Mister Dodda."

Nicholas did so with a wide grin.

Severus scowled. "Are you quite alright, Mister Dodda? Most students do not smile when they receive detention."

"I'm alright, Professor!" the boy said with a little hop. "What should I do?"

"Your detention will be tonight. You'll be chopping flobberworms."

The boy smiled _again_. "Brilliant, Professor. Bye!"

And then he was gone.

That evening, the boy was once again bubbling and smiling, and Severus didn't know what to make of it. It wasn't until he took the boy to the Hospital Wing - because Poppy had requested some Pain Potions, and he couldn't leave Nicholas Dodda unattended in his classroom - that he began to notice something.

Nicholas never quite met anyone's eyes. He always looked off into the distance, and while he was always smiling, there was always something melancholy there, lurking beneath the surface. As he and Poppy left the room - to put away the potions - he asked her what she thought was wrong.

"He doesn't seem quite right in the head…" she replied. "I hate to make that diagnosis so soon, though, I've only just met the boy. I hate it, but that's my gut reaction."

Severus nodded. "Understood. I might ask him about it, then. He was acting out in my Potions class today, in a very atypical manner."

"You mean he was smiling?" Pomona said with a chuckle.

Severus raised an eyebrow at her. "Why, yes. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must get back to my classroom. Nicholas still has to finish his detention."

When he and Nicholas made it back to the classroom, Severus asked him to take a seat before chopping flobberworms again. Then he asked him if his parents had ever said anything about him being special. And the boy's reaction surprised him.

"Mum told me we all have something special inside of us," the boy said, his eyes looking off into the distance. "She told me I have a cauldron inside me, in my belly. And because I'm me, and I'm a special person, touched by the moon, my cauldron is a little cracked."

Severus nodded, wondering how to phrase the next question. "Did she ever take you to get your cauldron fixed?"

"I'm not sure," Nicholas replied. "But I like my cauldron. It's cracked, but it works. The plain ones are so boring and smooth, anyway."

"But the smooth ones are safer."

"I'm happy the way I am, Professor. I don't want to go to St. Mungos, or to a Mind Healer's. Maybe my cauldron's a little cracked, but many people have made do with second hand school supplies, and anyway, this adds a little adventure to life."

"Adventure?"

"Yes." Strangely enough, the boy's eyes were shining now, and he turned to look at Severus. "For me, there's always a little wackiness in the world. The greatest wizards of all time were just a little crazy. I must say, I've never understood Dumbledore's words at the Welcome Feast. Don't you see?"

Severus slowly nodded. "I suppose I do. Although I must warn you - your peers may not be as accepting. You are a Hufflepuff, but that does not always mean as much as it should. If you should want help, come to a member of the staff."

"Okay!" Then the boy jumped to his feet. "Am I done with detention now?"

"I suppose so. I'll see you tomorrow in class, Mister Dodda."

"Bye Professor Snake!"


	71. Dragon Tamers

**House:** Eagles

 **Position:** Charms

 **Prompt:** [Speech] "How is it possible that someone as intelligent as (you/Name) can be so unfathomably dense?"

 **Category:** standard

 **Word count:** 1236

oO0Oo

Charlie slunk into the dragon's cave like a thief of old. Of course, he wore dragon-proof armor, carried dragons bane, and had magical trinkets galore in his knapsack. (Hermione had cast an Undetectable Extension charm on it, saying Rose and Hugo needed their uncle to come home safely). At the thought, Charlie's grip on his wand tightened.

He was on a team with twenty other highly skilled witches and wizards who had volunteered for what just might be a suicide mission.

They were to subdue the oldest, cleverest, orniest dragon known to the Wizarding World. This dragon, Rufus, had already escaped from three reservations, each time leaving hundreds — wizards and muggles alike — dead in his wake. The public had howled for revenge, but after his third escape, Rufus had disappeared somewhere in remote Nepal. Over the centuries, the world had almost forgotten Rufus, at least until he suddenly appeared and wrought havoc upon the world. (almost broke the Statute of Secrecy, not that dragons cared for Wizarding laws, anyways)

Now, after tracking Rufus for days, the twenty best dragon tamers the world had ever seen stood inside his cave. Miranda raised a fist, the agreed upon signal. The dragon tamers scattered.

Once Charlie was alone, he took out the map. On it, he could see the rest of his team, moving through the caves. Already he could see it was an extensive network — one could get lost for days in the tunnels they had already covered in the past half hour. The caves were cool, dark, and musky. They smelled like dragon. Charlie's nose wrinkled a bit at the slight sourness in the air — it also smelled faintly like lemons, and he wasn't sure why. He didn't know of any dragon diseases that smelled like lemons, but he also didn't know of any Nepalese Smokesnouts that had lived as long as Rufus.

He snuck forward, sticking to the shadows. Like the rest of the dragon tamers, he had cast a Disillusionment charm over himself. Although they didn't fool dragons completely, the charm should still blur their forms. Not that dragons needed an exact target for dragon fire.

As he pressed himself against the wall and cautiously peered around a bend in the cave, something tapped him on the shoulder. Charlie almost jumped out of his skin before realizing it was Liam behind him.

"Charlie?" he said softly. "We've found something."

Charlie turned. "Is everyone okay?"

Liam grinned. "Better than okay."

"What?" Squinting at Liam, Charlie stepped away from the wall. "We've got Rufus?"

Liam's grin only widened. "No, but you wouldn't believe me if I told you." He began walking away. "Follow me."

"Okay…" Now slightly suspicious, Charlie followed as Liam. As they went, Charlie noted how the air seemed damper and the light dimmer. They were moving deeper into the caves.

Then, outside of an intersection, Liam stopped. "Don't freak out," he said.

"Why would I—" was all Charlie managed before Liam pulled him into the intersection and whispered, "Look!"

Charlie looked, and at the sight, his words failed him.

Before him sat Luna. She was older than he remembered, but after all, he hadn't seen her in years, not since she left to discover the Crumple-Horned Snornack. She sat there, leaning nonchalantly against a drowsy, not quite sleeping dragon. Behind her, the walls were covered with colorful tapestries depicting profoundly odd creatures, and above her, there were muggle dream catchers hanging from the ceiling. All in all, the cave looked much more domestic than typical dragon caves did. It looked like someone eccentric lived here. Like Luna lived here. Rufus took up the majority of the room, but this space was decidedly hers.

Charlie watched as Luna ran her fingers over Rufus's dark red hide. Rufus was huge, his eyes as big as Luna's head and shining with intelligence, but Luna seemed entirely comfortable. In fact, she wore a flimsy filmy dress that did not look fireproof at all, a necklace of Butterbeer corks, and most shockingly, she had her wand tucked behind her ear.

Charlie realized his mouth had dropped open. "Luna?" he whispered.

She didn't turn.

He remembered that he'd cast a Silencing spell over himself as well as the Disillusionment Charm. After neutralizing both, he repeated, "Luna?" trying his best not to wake the dragon who had miraculously not eaten her yet.

At his voice, Rufus growled, but Luna just reached up and scratched him behind the ears. "Hush, it's time for you to sleep now. You wouldn't want to catch Huperym's Disease, now would you?"

At her touch, Rufus settled down. Then, without turning to face him, she said, "Hello, Charlie."

"Luna, what are you doing here? Get out! It's dangerous here!" Charlie hissed.

Luna just laughed softly. "Oh Charlie, I'm perfectly safe."

Charlie sputtered. "Luna, you're in an incredibly dangerous dragon's cave. This is the absolute opposite of safe."

"Charlie, I know anything is possible," she said, turning to face him with dreamy eyes and an amused smile, "but seriously, how is it possible that someone as intelligent as you can be so unfathomably dense?"

He sputtered some more. "Luna, please come with me, I can help you—"

"I wouldn't want that, Charlie. Rroashr here," she scratched his head affectionately, "Rroashr has been very kind to me. He tells me stories about creatures he met when he was younger, before the world changed. I enjoy being his caregiver, especially these days."

Charlie frowned. "Then why is he terrorizing the towns?"

Luna chuckled. "He's stopped now, that was months ago before I came. Rroashr," she ran her hand over Rufus's hide again, "he didn't actually want to hurt anyone. He just wanted the dragon tamers to come, so he could eat half of them and then trap the rest in the caves to care for him." She smiled at the dragon, as though she weren't talking about the death and imprisonment of Charlie and his fellow dragon tamers. "After all, he's getting older, and he wanted someone to take care of him."

Charlie's eyes opened wide and without thinking, he gave a low whistle. "Wow, old Rufus is more clever than we gave him credit for."

"He really is," Luna said, "but don't worry, now that I'm here he doesn't need you dragon tamers anymore." She walked over to Charlie and gave him a hug. "Give my love to Hermione and Ginny and the rest of them. I probably won't return to England for a while, but I'll be back someday." She hugged him again. "It's good to see you, Charlie. Please visit me sometimes."

Charlie automatically hugged her back. "Okay, uh, sure Luna. Owl me if you need anything."

Luna laughed. "Rroashr eats owls, but I'll floo call you instead. You should go now, though, and stop your friends from getting lost in the caves."

"Okay." He gave her another hug, unable to believe she was actually before him. "Thanks Luna. I'll see you again. I swear."

"Of course." She smiled, then stepped back to Rufus.

Charlie left, and as he walked back to the surface, a fond smile came to his lips. Who would have guessed, Luna Lovegood doing what even fully trained dragon trainers feared. She was an impressive woman.

He should visit her soon, and maybe bring her some flowers. He hadn't seen any in her room, and he had a suspicion she would appreciate it.


End file.
